The Order of the Black Heart (Warcraft 3)

[torroar]

The Order of the Black Heart: Part Eleven
Victory and Loss
A Warcraft III AU​

Coughing cleared blood clogged passages, and with that came air. With air came consciousness and with consciousness, Galen Trollbane managed to crack open one eye, the other swollen and purple from trauma. He immediately regretted his reawakening as a tidal wave of pain washed over him.

The sensations from all over his body communicated a general signal that felt like death, and was near enough to it to make the comparison a close contest. As he attempted to prop himself up, his arm screamed in protest and collapsed in seconds. Closing his eye, the young man tried to survey his injuries through the thick haze of pain.

The one arm he could feel throbbed from top to bottom, each pulse of pain sending a splash of black dots across his already hazy vision. Galen then attempted to move his legs, and received a bright flash of pain that nearly knocked him unconscious again in response. Finally giving up on moving for the moment, the prince of Stromgarde let his head rest against the crumbled stones that he had woken up in.

He could hear the crack and sizzle of the nearby flames, though the greater amount of noise by far was that of battle. In the distance, he could hear the crash of blades against skin and bone, the screams of men as they fought against the undead and demonic tides. There were the sounds of explosions as an ocean of bombs and explosives were unleashed by the gnomish general Thermaplugg, and the constant swish as gyrocopters pumped lead death into the swarms of gargoyles.

Galen cast his gaze about once more, wincing at the sight of every red armored body that he saw. There were dozens of visible bodies all around him, many crumpled underneath stones, and more often than not the only sign of a once proud son or daughter of Stromgarde was an arm or leg from underneath the rubble. But more than just humans had fallen, the gunmetal grey of Ironforge and weathered skin of Aerie Peak were also present alongside scattered gryphon corpses.

His head turned rapidly, drawing another throb of pain, at the sound of flapping wings.

Landing upon the rubble was a soot streaked gryphon, its snowy white feathers liberally covered with blood that had long dried to a rusty brown. Galen sighed in relief at the sight of a living Wildhammer, though the dwarf didn't look to be in much better condition than himself. The stout warrior scanned around at the bodies, one arm in a bloody sling, the other clutching his storm hammer.

"O-Over here!" Galen weakly called out, getting another round of coughing for his troubles.

The dwarf whipped his head round at the noise before approaching, carefully getting off of his gryphon and approaching on foot.

0o0o0o0o0o0
​

One Hour Ago, Atop Thoradin's Wall

"This isn't going to be pretty," someone said.

Galen could only nod his assent, gulping deeply at the sight in front of then. For a long two months Stromgarde had held against the undead menace alongside the dwarves of Aerie Peak and Ironforge from atop the Thoradin's Wall. They had faced flesh behemoths that were as tall as the wall itself, endless salvoes from Scourge siege weapons, magical assaults from different Scourge and demon spell casters, and other dark things.

An endless tide of zombies had begun to form piles at the base of the Wall, just trying to achieve enough height to tear at their living opponents. They had succeeded in this over a dozen times and it was only at great cost that such assaults were fended off. Despite the horror that the demons could bring to bear through illusion or the plague bombs launched towards them, there was a specific part of warfare against the undead that was more soul-rending than any other.

The Scourge made no qualms about using the corpses of anyone, man or woman, elder…or child.

Galen knew that he would remember having to hack a snarling five year old girl to pieces for the rest of his life. Her ragged dress had once been lacy and covered in frills. There had been a small bow in her pig tails. It had taken a full minute of work with his sword to keep the little ghoul from trying to bite his throat out, and after that he was assaulted by someone's rotting grandfather.

The mental toll of fighting the Scourge was taxing, and the prince of Stromgarde had seen men and women he'd known for years simply shut down over time and have to be sent back to the Keep. As the days and nights had stretched on as the tireless undead attacked at all hours and moment, more and more dwarves had to reinforce the wall as its human complement began to fail. Even then, the hardy dwarves had begun to falter slightly as they too had to put down the fallen humans of Lordaeron.

Salvation had finally come two weeks ago thanks to the gnomes who had sent their explosion happy General in Sicco Thermaplugg. The wondrous and more importantly emotionless machines of Gnomeregan had taken off immense pressure off of the Walls living defenders, and so the Scourge had been pushed back once more. The Order of the Black Heart had battered fruitlessly at the walls from their command post at Durnholde, Gavinrad the Dire himself acting as commander.

The pendulum of fate had swung in their favor, only to swing back only a few days later when a great roar had echoed out from Dalaran. Those upon the wall had despaired at the sound. As they had watched, great flashes of magical power had been visible even from the Wall in the distant city of mages, but in the end they had all known that it was inevitable that the Kirin Tor fall.

What no one had expected was what came next.

For five days the burning city had gone silent, the Scourge forces there moving themselves to reinforce Gavinrad's forces. The volume alone had nearly broken them were it not for several valiant holding actions. But then the silence was broken.

A great quake had wracked the earth, and then a terrible laugh had echoed out from Dalaran that somehow reached the Wall. From the ruins came a massive demon, a great lizard like beast that wielded a gigantic double bladed sword. A deep corona of fel green flames covered the beast as it sprinted the entire distance from the city, only growing larger as it charged towards the Wall. It was followed close behind by nine of its fellows, smaller in size but no less devastatingly powerful.

Manes of demonic flame served as their hair, and a thick forest of razor sharp teeth filled their maws that had proved able enough to bite through an unfortunate knight's enchanted plate armor. Thankfully their massive wings still proved unable to give enough lift to allow the creatures to reach the top of the wall, but they seemed determined to claw their way up anyway. It took far too many lives to keep them down for each attempt. Each wore a light set of armor, held on with rusted chain. Of far more concern were their massive weapons that burned with demonic power.

All ten had attacked the Wall for hours, tearing at it with muscle and magic and rage. Despite the best efforts of the defenders, they could not be dissuaded from their course as they tore are the foundations. Then, matters worsened with the approach of the traitor King of Lordaeron. Arthas strode down the road towards the gate at the speed of a casual stroll.

Behind the death knight came a brand new army, full of Dalaran's corpses. Dozens of the more powerful members of the Kirin Tor had been transformed into floating Liches, and from their hands came bolts of pure destruction that tore deep grooves and blasted holes into the Wall.

Galen stumbled as another of those bolts struck the wall just beneath him. Rubble tumbled away, but luckily he managed to grab onto the wall before falling to his death. Shouts of alarm greeted his ears before he simply flexed and pulled himself back up and then to his feet. His heart pounded in his chest, but he clamped down on it with steel discipline. Iron hadn't been enough even in the early days of the siege.

Waving off those who came close in concern, the prince turned at the chilling voice of Lordaeron's King.

The death knight stood directly in front of the main gate that had been reinforced a dozen times over. Blue light glowed from within black armor while a flame of the same color covered the cursed blade Frostmourne that was held in one hand. His arms were splayed wide, as a merchant at market trying to convince his customers that his prices were not gouging them completely.

"I am here to offer this chance, to any and all. Surrender, flee for your lives and you shall be spared this day!" Arthas called out, his voice magically enhanced to reach across the entire Wall from north to south.

Galen's eyes scanned about the Wall's defenders. To the last, they held resolute, some even audibly scoffing at the idea of turning coward. He breathed deeply, before delivering his answer.

"Never, traitor! We'll never surrender! Strike him down!" Galen roared.

A cheer echoed out as a veritable hurricane of arrows, storm hammers, explosives, firebombs, and even a few knives were thrown at the King. The death knight seemed to shrug before he was obscured by the incoming projectiles. Galen strained his eyes before groaning as he stood back.

Several spheres of energy glowed as they surrounded Arthas, and Galen looked back into the Scourge ranks to see the same colors of different spheres emanating from various Liches. As they faded, Arthas was revealed in a kneeling position, both hands wrapped around the hilt of his sword. Power swelled within him and the bright blue flame that had covered his blade erupted into a larger inferno whose flames licked across the death knight's armor but did no harm to their creator.

The chill that had raked down Galen's spine returned with a vengeance as those same spheres of energy returned and was then sucked down into the glowing pommel of the blade.

"What is he doing?" Galen whispered, his own grip on his sword turning his knuckles white with pressure.

The answer came seconds later as Arthas stood abruptly, took two steps forward, and then plunged Frostmourne into the earth until the entirety of the blade disappeared into the dirt.

A massive web of cracks erupted from that single point, each growing outwards and widening until they became fissures in the earth. Screaming blue flames and spirits poured forth from those fissures as they spread out across the whole of the base of the Wall. Hundreds of Scourge creatures tumbled into the abyss, but far more simply took several steps back so as to not fall themselves.

On and on they spread, until another great shudder was felt. Galen strode over before gazing down, his expression turning to horror. The cracks had spread themselves beneath the very foundations and had come out on the other side of the Wall.

Even the demons stood back, moving away from the continually widening rips in the earth. Their leader let out an enormous laugh, slapping at its belly at the sight of it, before slamming its blade into the ground and leaning on the pommel to watch.

Galen's eyes widened to saucers.

Thoradin's Wall had been built centuries ago, and was named for the very same Thoradin who had united numerous tribes into Arathor, the first nation of humanity to ever exist. It had served in the Troll Wars and had provided a massive defensive boon against the trolls of what would later be called Lordaeron as well as an enormous construction project that would never have been completed in a timely manner were it not for the assistance of the dwarves. It had taken over two decades to build.

It had been built to withstand the fury of the trolls at the height of their power. It had lasted for nearly three millennia of hardship.

It had not been built to face Arthas Menethil, empowered by the blade of Frostmourne and over twenty Liches of Dalaran. It was already a sixth of the way collapsed in three minutes.

A series of shuddering cracks echoed throughout the air before the part of the wall that Galen stood upon began to collapse. Galen yelled even as the stones began to fall. The vast majority of the soldiers around him tumbled to their deaths over the sides of the wall, but Galen's feet remained steady. He had run along its length as a boy, and it was only that experience that let him sprint for the ramps off the Wall.

He leapt over a crashing beam even as the screams began from the throats of the living and the dead as the Scourge began to pound the falling wall with their siege weapons and magics. Weaving between flailing men and women and ducking beneath a gryphon lifting off, Galen continued to run. Then, beneath his very feet, the walkway simply crumbled off into the abyss.

The last thing the scion of Trollbane saw before being knocked unconscious was the sky as it swarmed over with the flying forces of the Scourge. The last thing he heard was the laughter of demons even as Arthas called out.

"Remember, I gave you a choice!"

0o0o0o0o0o​

"Oh, Prince Galen, thank goodness you're alive!" the dwarf said even as he hoisted the prince onto his gryphon.

As the beast rose into the sky, the Wildhammer shoved a red potion into the human's mouth, the healing potion immediately setting to work. Three more were drained before Galen managed to speak again even as he continued to down more.

"I don't feel so thankful, personally," he groaned out. The gryphons flapping bounced him slightly, jostling the injured young man repeatedly.

"Feh, you should be. You're the first survivor from the wall I've found, and we're out of time," his rescuer replied.

"T-the first?" Galen stuttered even as he forced himself to sit straighter.

"Aye. It was…bad, lad. We were all watchin' from the Keep when th' Wall collapsed. We tried ta get rescue parties in, but the damned Scourge and their demons swarmed over. Me and me boys managed to approach from the north after swinging 'round, but you were the only one that didn't die as we reached em," the dwarf called back over his shoulder.

It was only after he finished that Galen managed to process what he had heard.

"What do you mean out of….time…," he trailed off, his voice becoming a strangled whisper.

Reaching over to tap the dwarf on the shoulder had allowed him to get a better view as the gryphon broke through the clouds.

The Arathi Highlands….all of it….was filled with demons and undead. Fel green flames burned across the plains, washing over the land and leaving it blackened and corrupted. Great crevices in a giant pattern that was the shape of an outstretched skeletal hand had been dragged across with the longest finger touching the other half of the Highlands, the 'wrist' being formed from the rubble of the Wall. In the direct center of the plains was a great floating Necropolis, a sprawling Scourge base flowing out from it like rot-filled water.

Circles of Liches worked to maintain and widen portals from which spawned an ever growing army of demons that was by now looking to match the undead in number. More creatures like the large four legged demons came, accompanied by hordes of doomguard and snarling packs of felhounds. Among them all walked strange multi-armed demon women, shouting the various groups into organized formations that then went on the march. There was all this and more, demons that Galen hadn't even known existed walking the earth before his very eyes.

"What are we going to do?" he whispered.

"That's not up to me, it's up to the Thane, the Bronzebeard, and yer dad," the dwarf replied.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0
​

10 Minutes Later

The gryphon landed onto the stones at high speed, claws skittering for purchase. As it stopped, a cautious Galen got down, his hand on his still throbbing sides.

"Galen!" came a voice thick with emotion.

Thoras Trollbane swept up his son and hugged him tight, cracking already broken ribs ever so slightly more.

"D-dad, can't breathe!" Galen gasped.

His words were ignored.

"Shut up boy, this is the first time I've seen you in over two day!" Thoras replied, tears of relief streaming down his face and into his blood stained mustache.

Eventually however the prince was released to cough heavily as his already much abused ribs sent up brand new signals of pain. A hand fell upon his shoulder then, making him look up.

The King of Stromgarde had seen better days. The original red paint of his plate armor had long been replaced with over a dozen new layers of blood, while the metal itself had been dented inwards so many times as to nearly be skin tight. His wild mane of hair had been cut at repeatedly, hacked apart by hastily dodged blades and claws, though a bright and fresh scar marred his face.

But the tabard of Stromgarde was still proudly displayed despite its own rips and tears, and just like it Thoras stood strong, the axe that was his namesake tightly held in one hand.

"I nearly thought you dead, Galen, though you nearly look it," he continued.

Galen managed a smile, before reaching up and giving a far less painful hug to his father with his good arm.

"My arm is broken along with some of my ribs and I've probably fractured a lot of other parts. But I'm not dead just yet, after all, I'm Stromgarde aren't I?" the prince said with a small smile at the end.

The clatter of a crate on the ground caught his attention.

A large number of weary gryphons and horses were being covered with packs and boxes filled with all manner of supplies. The fallen crate had opened slightly, revealing nicked and scratched blades before it was covered once more and the crate was fastened to the gryphon that had bucked it. A small train of peasants carried ever more to the already straining animals.

Galen turned to his father, a questioning look on his bruised face.

"Father…what's going on?" he asked.

Thoras's face turned grim as he turned away to face the walls. Upon them fighting a desperate defensive battle were the last remaining soldiers of Stromgarde remaining in the Arathi Highlands. A blight bomb lobbed by a Scourge catapult landed amongst a group, sloughing off flesh and turning the remaining skeletons against their former comrades. As they did so a group of dwarves intervened, crushing bones to dust before continuing on along the wall.

"We're leaving, boy. The Highlands are lost, and we're retreating," he said flatly.

Galen stared at him in shock.

"Wh-what!?! But, we can't! We are the sons of Stromgarde, the best fighters in all the Kingdoms! Th-this is the site of Strom, the first home of humanity, of Arathor!" he protested.

So visceral was his reaction that he began to cough, harder and harder until flecks of blood began to hit the ground. Thoras turned, and grasped both of Galen's shoulders and forcing him to look up.

"Don't you think I know that Galen?! Do you not think that it burns at my very soul to leave our home to the hand of the Scourge and their demonic masters?" Thoras roared.

The king stomped away before punching a hand into solid stone, smashing through it entirely.

"To think that for all of our vaunted martial abilities, that we could not hold back the enemy, that upon losing the Wall our ancestor built it took a little over two days for the Highlands to be overrun, do you think that it does not hurt me to even say these words!?!" he continued.

Thoras whirled and let loose a wordless yell to the heavens. It lasted for a full minute before ending, his barrel chest heaving. He stomped forward and thrust a metal covered finger into his sons face.

"We will not sacrifice the people of Stromgarde for the Keep, boy. We've been evacuating since the Wall fell and you with it. The Keep is the last resistance in the land, and soon we'll have to be heading over the Span," he growled, rage at the enemy still coloring his voice.

Galen opened his mouth, moved it wordlessly, and then closed it. He bowed his head, his one working hand clenching so deeply that blood began to drop.

"I…I just can't believe that we-," he said quietly.

"Lost? Boy we lost the moment Lordaeron fell and we sent no help. We lost when we didn't try to save Dalaran and Hillsbrad. We lost, and what's done is done. Now all we can do is try to ensure as many people as possible escape to the Wetlands and beyond," his father interrupted.

Another crash brought both of their heads jerking up, and the blood drained from Galen's face as the gate of Stromgarde Keep came crashing down. In a burst of wood splinters and flames came the same leader of the demon commanders that had come from Dalaran's ruins.

"I AM AZGALOR, TREMBLE AND DESPAIR BEFORE ME MORTALS!!!" roared the demon. Its sword swung back and forth, tearing apart the knights that attempted to approach.

Galen found himself picked up bodily and thrown back onto the gryphon he'd arrived on. Thoras nodded before shouting out orders, the packing frantically picking up the pace, many beginning to depart for the south. The land bound evacuees began to head towards the back passages towards the ocean, while the flyers simply lifted up and away.

"Father, what are you doing?!" he cried out.

Thoras looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face. He looked down at his great axe, as if weighing it in his hands. Then he turned his gaze to the frantically but painfully slow movement of his people as they fled down into the tunnels where hopefully ships in the cove would be able to carry them to Menethil Harbor. A bout of cruel laughter echoed out and brought his attention to Azgalor as the demon slaughtered its way through the few remaining soldiers.

The elder Trollbane looked at the sky, then back down, and whispered a few words to himself and giving a faint chuckle. A hand reached back and unstrapped a scabbard that had until now gone unnoticed by Galen, a very distinct name inscribed along the leather in a practically dead language.

"That's-," Galen began before stopping as the sheathed blade was shoved into his hands.

"Our legacy, boy. You take that blade, and you make damn sure you hold onto it," Thoras replied as he walked away.

"Father, what are you doing?" Galen said fearfully.

Thoras gave a deep sigh even as he hefted his axe up upon his shoulder.

"They're too exhausted. Everyone is, they've been going without sleep for two days of constant running and fighting. They aren't soldiers, they're just people trying to live," he said gazing at the citizens of his kingdom, "Too slow and the demons will catch them before they can get out. Too fast and they'll catch the Scourge's attention and be swarmed," the King turned his head to look at his son then, a hard expression on his face, "I'm not going to let that happen."

Galen struggled to get off of the Gryphon, before being held back on by the same dwarf that had saved him. He looked back as the dwarf shook his head.

"Dad! Dad no! Let me fight with you! I can still-," he tried to say even as his head swam with stars. Galen swayed before shaking himself to try and speak again. Thoras walked over, a kind smile on his face.

"Listen to me Galen. You're my son, and it will be up to you to lead our people when I'm gone," Thoras said quietly.

"Dad!" Galen cried out, his working arm still clutching onto the blade given to him.

"I love you Galen. I'm sorry, I wish we had more time," Thoras mussed his sons hair one last time before turning away, "Dwarf, take my son away from here. You make sure he lives through this or I swear I'll rise back up and find you," the king said through gritted teeth.

The dwarf nodded before lightly tapping the gryphon to fly upwards.

"The heart of a nation is not in a building or a castle boy, it's in its people. You keep the people of Stromgarde alive, you keep Stromgarde alive!" Thoras called out as his son ascended.

Galen's response was another cry for his father before he was swallowed up by the clouds. Soon after that the sound of heavy feet intruded into the courtyard accompanied by a heavy tail sliding along the ground.

"Aha! So! We finally find the last pitiful defender of this pathetic people!" Azgalor crowed.

The Pit Lord stomped through the entrance, accompanied by a score of doomguard soldiers. Behind him came Arthas, the death knight followed close behind by Kel'Thuzad and the rest of the Order of the Black Heart. Azgalor looked at the living human king impatiently, waiting for the gibbering terror that he rightfully inspired.

Thoras continued looking up towards the sky, more words whispered under his breath.

"Look at me mortal, I will not be ignored!" the demon roared, slamming his massive blade Spite into the floor.

Thoras deigned to look down before lifting his axe into a ready position.

"Wasn't ignoring you fat one, I heard you. I was just making sure to say an early hello to my wife."

Azgalor sneered. Arthas chuckled but stopped when the demons head whipped around to glare at him.

"How accommodating of you mortal, I will make sure that you are reunited posthaste."

Thoras looked down at his axe, and then held it out as it to present it, a curious expression on his face.

"You know, I never agreed with people calling the axe Trollbane. It never seemed to have gotten the chance to get a name on its own right rather than simply being my weapon of choice," he said.

"I've been thinking….how does Demonbane sound?" he continued.

Before Azgalor could speak, the King of Stromgarde was already sprinting towards him.

"BETTER YET, TELL ME HOW IT FEELS!" he bellowed as he leapt into the last battle of his life.

 

[torroar]

Note: here it is! rewritten!​

The Order of the Black Heart: Part Twelve
The Grindstone

A Warcraft III AU​

The mountain fortress-city known as Aerie Peak had been painstakingly carved over the course of generations ever since the loss of Grim Batol in the War of the Three Hammers. Thought it took more than two hundred years, the massive though featureless mountain had been carefully shaped into a perfect rendition of a mighty gryphons head. It had been here that the Wildhammers had retreated and rebuilt their lives, their culture, and their people. Though there were over a dozen extended families that lived in the Highlands to the north east, the vast majority of their people had taken up residence in the Peak. The wide open skies and nature had become their only companions as relations with their Bronzebeard cousins soured.

With a screech of metal on metal, a boulder carved over with demonic runes was thrown into the very beak of the gryphon head and subsequently exploded in a cloud of acrid smoke and fel magics. Even as the tainted smog cleared dozens of gryphon riders appeared carrying explosives of their own in sweaty fists. A miniature storm of fire erupted as they threw these same bombs upon their foe, even while others cast down twirling hammers of stone and metal bearing deadly nimbuses of lightning and thunder.

Yet, as the smoke cleared, they could only groan and retreat from the sight of their utterly unblemished foe.

Poisonous green smoke belched from the great vent in its chest, even as twin pistons along its back ratcheted up and down wildly. Its oversized legs creaked and shook as it bent low and grabbed another boulder before lobbing it with fingers bigger than large oaks to crash again into the gryphon head. Made entirely of demonic magic and engineering, this black iron construct in particular had walked over a hundred worlds in the Burning Legion's endless campaign of chaos and destruction. It was the largest of its kind on this world, at the moment, and dwarfed even its five kin

Despite it being entirely mechanical, the ominous fel glow behind the helmet that made up its 'head' was reminiscent of glee as it swatted gryphon riders from the sky and stomped the land-bound Wildhammers to less than paste. There were literally hundreds of great dents in its black plates, yet it continued its brutal assault uncaring of the stormhammer's that fruitlessly bounced across its head.

It was one of the most devastating creations ever devised by demon-kind and yet it, and all its kind, went by a rather simple name.

Fel Reaver.

Demons of all sorts raced underfoot of the mighty golems, crashing into battle against the Wildhammer dwarves as they advanced up the mountain. Hounds and soldiers, even the rare eredar sorcerer could be seen through the churning dust and smoke of war. Teams of dwarves brought down their taller opponents either through skilled use of their warhammers or by bolts of magic. Men and women wearing talismans, feathers, and even bone charms stormed into battle, lightning and flames crackling in their hands.

The shamans of the Wildhammer would fight to their last breaths to defend their ancestral home.

"TEAR IT DOWN! ALL OF IT! ALLLLLL OFFF ITTT!! BRING ME THE BOY! BRING ME TROLLBANE!!!" boomed a voice drenched in fury.

As formations of demonic soldiers swarmed about beneath the feet of the Fel Reaver's, atop a small hillock stood the overall commander of the Burning Legion's armies, Azgalor, his arm outstretched with one long finger pointed towards the besieged Wildhammer city.

Standing taller than some of the smaller trees, the Annihilan glowered as his forces crashed against the dwarven defenders. Lowering his arm, he idly rubbed one of his new…additions.

Replacing the entirety of his lower jaw was a strange metallic creation, similar in size and appearance to the aesthetics of the Fel Reavers in color and shape. Large jutting spikes performed the function of teeth, even though they did in fact stick out beyond the upper jaw to create a black iron under bite. Several large screws had been driven into the sides of the demons jaw along with compartmentalized movement systems, deep into the bone itself. Small trickles of green blood dripped from these, but the creature paid them no mind.

Azgalor looked down and flexed his new left arm, the same connector bolts slammed into his shoulder, the black iron flexing just as well as his real one would have. From a large vent along the left upper shoulder belched the same green smoke that came from the chest of the Fel Reavers in a constant stream. Covered in extra protective plates that possessed numerous hooks and blades, it would perform more than able enough.

There was another crash as part of Aerie Peak collapsed inward, sending pained screams into the air.

The Annihilan basked in it like a refreshing breeze before lowering his head. Azgalor growled under his breath as he watched a Wildhammer break apart an Infernal with their cursed hammers.

"I will find your son, Trollbane," he snarled, hatred pouring out across the name as he spoke it.

"He will pay a thousand times over for what you did to me…"

0o0o0o0o0o0o

Five Days Ago​

In the center of the courtyard of Stromgarde Keep, a beast raged.

It screamed at the sky and the earth, roaring so loud the earth itself shook. Across its scaled hide were dozens of cuts and wounds from which bright green blood flowed, splattering across the ground as it stomped back and forth. An enormous gout of blood coated dirt, sizzling and hissing as the corruptive substance sank into the earth and stones. Giant fingers grasped wildly at the still bleeding stump that terminated beyond the demons left shoulder. A river of demon blood came from this open wound, bone visible even beneath the ravaged meat. Yet for all the disgusting sight that it made, there was another that was far worse.

The majority of its lower jaw had been savaged; jawbone and teeth slashed and cut apart leaving nothing but a greatly bleeding ruin behind. The slab of meat that made up its tongue waggled within the ruined mouth, more than half flapping in the wind.

The demon screamed again, agony etched into every syllable.

Azgalor, Supreme Annihilan and Chosen of Archimonde to succeed the demon-king Mannoroth the Destructor, punched into a stone wall with his remaining arm as he roared in pain. Across the ground were the scattered remains of his two-bladed sword Spite, the powerful demonic artifact rendered simple shards of metal.

"Graaagh! 'amned M'tol! K'll argh AG'NN!" Azgalor bellowed through his shattered jaw sending phlegm, blood, and bone shards flying with every word.

The demon dragged itself over to the shattered and destroyed body of the one who had hurt him so grievously. The almost unrecognizable body of Thoras Trollbane, Lord of Stromgarde, lay impacted into a wall. Azgalor released his hold on his stump, the sudden lack of pressure sending another wave of demon blood splashing down, and ripped the dead human out of the wall where he had been shattered into.

Azgalor flung the corpse across the courtyard to land at the feet of the only other standing being in the entire keep. It bounced over the bodies of a dozen different demons, slain by the body flying over them, finally stopped by a great black plated boot. The body had been beaten, thrown, stabbed, and burnt over and over again in death as the inextinguishable flame of Azgalor's fury blazed out of control.

Arthas Menethil looked down at the body, a small smirk on his face before he rolled the body slightly away from him. The smirk faded as Azgalor shambled towards him, rage obvious in the flaming orbs that passed for its eyes. Unholy blue stared up into fel green until the death knight rolled his eyes and unsheathed his blade Frostmourne.

"I assume you want me to raise him so that you can kill him again?" he said in exasperation.

It had been a full hour since the battle had been concluded, the last few remnants of resistance either escaping or crumbling entirely. Eventually, the only violence taking place in the Highlands had been located here as Azgalor attempted to punish the thoroughly dead Trollbane. Arthas began to channel the energies required to force the battered body to standing position once more when Azgalor cut him with a wave.

"Gahngggg…'O, 'O I 'av pl'ns f'r h'mm!" the demon said, spitting blood and bone with every other word.

Arthas wisely took a few steps back as to not be covered in it.

"Plans, mighty one?" the death knight said curiously.

The sound of Azgalor's broken laughter was that of wet gravel and rocks grinding against one another. Without looking any further at Arthas, Azgalor reached down and picked up the shattered remains of his weapon Spite. A grunt of effort that forced a spurt of blood to squelch out of the ruined jaw brought about a hazy black glow around the broken edges.

"Po'wr Un'boun'!" Azgalor murmured darkly.

Then, with astonishing speed, the side of the blade still retaining a few inches of metal was stabbed downwards into the ruined Trollbane, impaling it completely. The body was raised high, the black aura growing to surround it as well.

"Blo'd o' a champ'n!" he continued.

With sharp movements, the body was flung off of the hilt, faint red blood still coating it. As Arthas watched, Azgalor stabbed into the air with his new creation, and drawing it back out. Where the tip touched the air, green and black scars appeared out of nothingness and began to grow. The hilt's point was dragged through the air, slices leaving behind a floating circle filled with runes that dripped with power.

"An' al' m' RAGE!" Azgalor finished.

A coil of green flames erupted across the Annihilan's body and leapt into the circle. Arthas raised an arm to cover his face, yet he could still sense the sheer magical power being poured into the growing portal.

"Mo'arg!" the demon roared.

There was a sound like cracking lightning, and the portal widened fully, enough to accommodate Azgalor several times over. From it came the strangest demons that Arthas had ever seen. Up until this point, the minions of the Legion had been uniform in one way or another. All Infernals were produced to the exact same specifications, while the arms and armor gave the same general look to the Fel or Doom Guard. Even the packs of Fel Hounds were relatively similar in their desiccated appearances . But what strode forth from the gate were none of these.

Grotesque bodies colored anywhere from green so dark it was nearly back to sickly pale, and snarling faces to boot. They hunched, or stomped, or walked straight-backed, all responding to the call. Most were missing limbs, of one kind or another, arms or legs replaced with strange metal contraptions with large green tubes filled with liquid so filled with corruption that the death knight could feel it from where he was standing.

Some possessed great pincer claws, inner edges sharped to fillet flesh and bone with ease. Others had enormous buzz-saws that spun wildly, sparks showering down. Even a few had missing eyes, bulbous contraptions filling the sockets instead.

They were the Mo'arg, chief engineers and creators of machines of death in the Legion. Their black iron constructs had shattered worlds beyond counting even before the eventual fall of the Titan known as Sargeras.

One, so horrifically muscular that its head was nearly swallowed by its shoulders, stumped to the forefront, a fully articulated metal arm that twitched and moved just as an organic one would replacing both of its arms. It bowed awkwardly before the seething Azgalor.

"You have called! What do you-hurk!" it began.

It did not finish, because Azgalor had grabbed it and shoved his still bleeding stump nearly down the Mo'arg's throat, roaring wordlessly.

Throwing the bewildered demon to the ground, Azgalor whirled on Arthas.

"Y'U!" he began. As the demon approached the King of Lordaeron, he paused to scoop up the pile of meat that had become Trollbane's body.

"Wh'rs 'is S'N!" he said, thrusting the carcass into Arthas's face.

"His son? How should I know, we saw him flying off on a gryphon. The largest gryphon roost in the world is at Aerie Peak with the rest of the Wildhammer dwarves-," the death knight began.

Azgalor's eyes narrowed, and leaned down until his face was less than a foot away from Arthas's own. With his remaining hand he wiped the gaping maw that had become his face and spit out a slew of blood and the few remaining loose bone shards.

"Where…" he growled.

0o0o0o0o0o​

Azgalor growled again.

"TROLLBANE! SHOW YOURSELF!" he roared again at the Peak.

Just like the last few times, the human wretch did not follow the Annihilan's wishes. In all honesty the demon could have roared for hours, yet thankfully the universe decided to spare a good many dwarves ears with a distraction. At the sound of a portal opening and closing, Azgalor turned to find two Nathrezim standing before him.

"Mighty Azgalor, how goes the hunt?" came the smooth voice of Mephistroth, a small grin on the demons face.

Unlike the still slightly battered Anetheron, whose broken horns and slightly crumpled wing remained evidence of the last stand of Dalaran, the newest Nathrezim to walk the earth of Azeroth was practically pristine. Standing just slightly shorter than his counterpart in gleaming blue armor with a completely unscathed face and not even a trickle of blood from the last meal of cattle, the dread lord cut a completely different figure than his counterpart.

The power emanating that dwarfed Anetheron's own was a far greater sign of difference however.

Azgalor glared.

"Do you think to mock me? I am fully aware that you do not approve of this assault," he ground out, metal jaw snapping.

Mephistroth cocked his head.

"Whatever I may feel personally has no bearing upon how the Legion's ground forces shall move. After all, you are the Supreme Commander of such. I merely came to inform you that the Scourge boy has finally deigned to move on the bridge," the dread lord replied genially.

The Annihilan shifted his bulk to gaze through the blasted apart passageway that had been torn through the mountains. Where before there had been large tunnel leading up from the Arathi Highlands to the Hinterlands there was now a wide and flattened pass that had been blasted out by way of Fel Reavers and explosives. The shifting Scourge army was now visible, and so Azgalor grinned darkly as he watched it flow southwards, the metal quietly screeching with the movement.

"Hah! Good…good! I'll tear Trollbane's whelp from his stone womb, be done in-," he began to say.

There was an enormous explosion behind them, and all three turned.

There was an enormous gout of flames raking off of the largest Fel Reaver's chest. Liquid green flame seeped from the new rent in its body, and as Azgalor squinted he sighted the culprit.

A wild slam brought a stormhammer into the metal, ripping a new handhold as Falstad Wildhammer climbed up the mountain of metal. Lightning sparked around him, and a red glow surrounded his hands. The dwarf seemed to double in size as he roared in fury, and Azgalor could feel the strange shamanic magics of the Wildhammer pumping into the Thane as he continued his assault.

Finally reaching the flaming vent, Falstad battered the metal rungs a final time before holstering his hammer. Leaning back from a particularly acrid burst of smoke, the dwarf leaned in with both hands and gripped the vent. Screaming with the knowledge that his home was being utterly destroyed, the demons below watched unbelieving as the little man ripped the vent apart, flames spreading outwards and across his arms.

Falstad merely gritted his teeth and reached back before throwing a strange seed that shook and trembled in his hands into the center of the beast. The dwarf leapt from the Fel Reaver and onto a swooping gryphon that sped away even as the machine halted in its movements to destroy them, roaring all the while in the dwarvish tongue.

There was a popping noise before roots and branches of some enormous plant exploded from within the Reaver's chest. Rivets and plates were ripped asunder as the growth continued, the head popping off as thorny twists of plant life grew from within the machine's body. The engines within and their fuels were consumed before the entire thing began to crumple from within. Falling to its knee's the Fel Reaver gave one last roar before the entire golem erupted, sending metal rivets flying in every direction.

A single sliver sliced across Azgalor's side and through Azgalor's crumpled left wing.

Mephistroth immediately grabbed his brother Nathrezim and teleported them away as the Annihilan began to tremble. Shaking with fury, the demon roared to the heavens as he wildly leapt from the hill top and into the battle itself, ripping and tearing with his bare hands.

"Tear it down. TEAR IT ALL DOWN!" he bellowed.

0o0o0o0o0​

Falstad blinked through the smoke he surveyed his people. Three dwarves or more to a gryphon, the noble beasts squawked and ruffled their feathers under the unfamiliar strain. The highest halls of the Aerie were filled with them all, only the most vital belongings carried with them.

It had been less than ten minutes since that last defiant strike against the demons forces, and it would not be repeated. The seed had been prepared by the elder Wildhammer shamans before they had evacuated on Falstad's orders. They had been on the first few flights to leave for the south along with the young and infirm amongst the dwarves in order preserve the knowledge and culture of their people after the Peak fell.

"Master Falstad! We must leave!" came a slightly harried voice.

Looking up, Falstad found the soot covered face of Galen Trollbane, the only human in the Peak, tossing large packs of supplies into crates that were immediately strapped to gryphons once full. The human prince had barely recovered from his own injuries, but had stoically continued to assist the dwarves despite the protests of the healers. The dwarf nodded and moved to mount his own gryphon before spying something from the corner of his eye.

Reaching down, the High Thane of the Wildhammers picked up a small cloth doll, dropped in the wild rush to escape. Rubbing the doll with his thumb, he closed his eyes and ignored the protests of his tortured skin as he held it. Plunging his arms into the chest of the Fel Reaver had turned his skin blackened and red, and it was only with numerous poultices, shamanic healing, and sheer stubbornness that allowed him to function through what would otherwise have been utterly crippling pain.

He listened to the last sounds that he would hear in the Aerie Peaks for the foreseeable future.

There was the crackling stone as the Fel Reaver's literally climbed and tore at the mountain itself.

The dying as a full third of the entire Wildhammer people fought a holding action to allow their fellows to escape.

The roars of rage as the infuriated demon commander tried to force his way into the Peak itself, tossing demon and dwarf alike aside in its rush.

The sudden rush of flames that had crept up the Aerie until it filled the doorways nearby and licked at the ceiling.

Falstad opened his eyes.

There was an audible crash and boom, even at the highest point of the Aerie, as Azgalor finally managed to burst through the barred doors to the mountain-city with a wordless roar. Shamans and warriors alike were battered aside by the literal dozen in grand sweeps that struck with enough force to explode bodies like melons on sheer impact alone.

"Master Falstad!" the boy called out with even more panic covering his voice.

The dwarf finally nodded, and slowly walked towards his beloved Gryphon, saddled as it was with supplies and armor. Galen slumped in the saddle already, exhaustion covering the boys frame.

With a whistle and a twirl of his horrendously burnt hands, the Wildhammers lifted off as one.

And abandoned their home.

A rain of gryphon feathers and tears would be all that was left to mark their passing.

0o0o0o0o00o00
​

When the first few Dreadguard smashed through the walls to arrive at the upper levels of Aerie Peak, all they found was smashed crates, empty nests, and a bounty of supplies that had simply not been able to be carried out. Flags and banners had either been burnt to cinders or bundled up and taken with the rest of the Wildhammers as well as numerous other trinkets.

In the end, the only real sign that there had been dwarves in that crumbling ruin at all was a simple cloth doll.

In truth, the rage and fury of an Annihilan is something that is always being expressed. It is their finest wine, their choicest meat. Engines of destruction fueled endlessly on purest and darkest hatred. But to have no foe, no wretch to destroy…they can become rather agitated.

When Azgalor learned that his prey had escaped him once more, he slaughtered dozens, then hundreds of his own soldiers in a wild fury. Some would return to the Nether to reform years later. Others would not be so lucky. He stomped across every inch of the ground before the Peak, spilling rivers of fel blood across the ground and tainting the forests. He instructed the Fel Reavers to tear the whole of Aerie Peak apart stone by stone, before pausing only a few hours later.

Instead, he demanded that the Mo'arg take the mountain, or at least the shattered third of it that remained structurally viable. He desired a mighty bastion, one that would be covered and filled to the brim with demonic energies, with vast machines to pump out the weapons of war needed to take this most stubborn of worlds. He granted them leave to do whatever they wished to the once mighty home of the dwarves to leave it unassailable, so long as a steady stream of war machines would be granted to him upon his journey.

Aerie Peak and in fact the whole of the Hinterlands would become drowned by the touch of the Legion for many painful years to come.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0​

To the south of the Hinterlands, another assault would soon begin. The mighty Thandol Span had been collapsed days earlier with the explosive brilliance of the gnomes, leaving only scattered assaults of flying barges, zeppelins, and daring raids by those capable of teleportation to be the method of attack and defense between the living and the dead.

This was soon to change.

Even now, after so much fighting, many commanders had trouble comprehending the true horror of war against the tireless undead. They did not eat, not truly though the psychological effect of watching corpses be devoured by ghouls was worth its weight in gold in new recruits. But more than that, they never slept.

Ever.

So it was that just before the break of dawn there came a great and terrible rumbling. Guards snapped to bleary alertness, spyglasses were fumbled before settling with trembling hands, and shouts soon went up across the battle lines. Dwarven and human rifles were raised, even as many rushed from camps to set themselves. Cries of alarm forced a sleeping and weary coalition to blink away the sleep from its eyes only to widen them in horror at what came thundering down the roads of the blighted Hinterlands.

Massive giants of sewn together flesh, with absolutely massive bolts of rusted metal slamming chunks of rotting meat together, given unto the same design as the flesh titans which had stormed the now blasted wasteland that had been Quel'Thalas. But they were not what suddenly bawling sergeants and generals were focused on. Men and women were sent scrambling to form shield walls while gnomish fliers soon appeared in the air.

The four twisted monsters paid no attention to the sudden stream of bullets and explosives that fell upon them, the siege bolts and cannon balls that tore away entire fields of meat. Unfeeling, they merely tightened their formation further to better safeguard the true threat that many were only barely able to see.

The Mo'arg had done more than simply restore the demon Azgalor.

For coming ever closer was an near impossibly large slab of black steel, the materials of which could have gone to over a dozen Fel Reavers. The gnomes had destroyed the Thandol Span, the solemn chunks of grey stone from the great bridge still poking through the skein of the ocean below.

The Legion had decided to make their own.

In the end, there was nothing to be done.

It had been too early, too unexpected, and in the same crushing manner that the Legion had persecuted its campaign of devastation across countless worlds before, unstoppable.

The slab of metal slammed down, crumbling earth and turning those unfortunate gnomes, humans, and dwarves who had been too far forward into less than paste. The earth crumbled mightily, but the bridge held. Before anything else could be done, the four shambling creatures that had carried it there crossed it to wreak havoc upon their terror filled foes.

It was only moments later that a tide of howling death swarmed across right behind them, led at the forefront by a laughing madman with the runeblade Frostmourne held high.

0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o

One Month Later
​

"Strike! Faster you dogs! My great grandmother could fight better than the rest of you pathetic louts!" roared the drill sergeant.

The swarthy man stomped up and down the line, his full armor clanking noisily as he gesticulated back and forth and yelled at his two dozen charges. He moved with ease and speed, a stark contrast to the huffing and puffing recruits who struggled to follow his directions. Swords and shields moved back and forth against utterly uncaring training posts crudely painted with the faces of orcs and trolls.

Buckets of sweat poured off of faces red with effort and sunburn, but they did not cease. They were not allowed to. Every time one slipped up, or swung out of time, the sergeant was there to berate them back into position. The grass of the fenced in square had been trampled into the dirt, the morning dew long gone as other soldiers worked to train themselves across the great field.

Prospective knights unsteadily wobbled on top of pawing warhorses; gritting their teeth to hold up the heavy training lances and swords they had been given. At a whistle, horses reared up and then ran down dirt tracks, the terrified screams of their riders echoing behind them. The sound of wooden lances striking training armor and the sudden exhalation of air as one of the trainees was struck to the ground. Many of those watching groaned as small pouches of coins were exchanged back and forth.

Across the field from the horses, a fusillade of bullets impacted against targets, veteran dwarvish marksmen barking out instruction and encouragement to their human trainees. Many took refuge in the shade provided by their hoods, though a few discussed various topics from underneath a large tent, large foaming steins in their hands. Some sighed in disappointment of the ineptitude of their charges.

From the top of a hill, the man known as Highlord Bolvar Fordragon stood watching with his arms clasped behind his back.

His eyes narrowed, watching the generally sorry state of what had become of Stormwind's army. It was undermanned, under-equipped, and under-trained. Only a fraction of the men and women down there had any experience under their belts, and even though they did their best, it would be a while before Stormwind's army was truly worth anything again.

"Ho there Highlord? Come to see us sorry fellows try to remember how to hold a blade?" came an amused voice from the path leading up to Bolvar's position.

The Highlord turned to see the sweating and fully armored form of Marcus Jonathan walking up to him. The hard expression on Bolvar's face softened, slightly, as he gestured for a servant to bring the High Commander of Stormwind's defense some water.

"No, Marcus, I'm here to make sure that we sorry fellows remember how to hold a blade," he replied.

Marcus raised an eyebrow even as he gratefully accepted the water, draining the cup in moments before letting out a pleased sigh.

"Oh? We've been at this for only a week, Bolvar. It takes time to re-organize, well, everything, yes?" he said.

The Highlord snorted even as his hand gripped the wooden fence so tightly that it creaked.

"Time we don't seem to have, Marcus. You've read the same reports that I have. Lordaeron, Quel'Thalas, Stromgarde, Aerie Peak, all gone. The Scourge is on a path south, and they've battered their way across half the Wetlands already," Bolvar said darkly.

"Our forces have fallen into utter disarray. Our veterans have become disillusioned drunkards or left to work the farms. The little bit of funding we've been receiving from the House of Nobles has only just been increased thanks to the Lady Prestor, but money can only do so much. Our lands have been wracked by bandits, the Defias especially, without our attentions," he continued.

Bolvar turned to Marcus then, consternation clear on his face.

"For Light's sake, Marcus. There was a metric ton of reports that had somehow gotten lost about the state of Elywnn. They've even been assailed by murlocs of all things. Murlocs! When's the last time we sent out a good set of patrols across the forest, to Westfall, or Redridge beyond token support?" he asked harshly.

Marcus rubbed his bushy mustache in thought, even as he nodded in agreement about the Highlord's complaints.

"Well, you are right about that. We have been too lax recently. I've been out here since before the sun rose and it hasn't been pretty," he replied.

His last words were punctuated by another trainee falling off of his horse as it reared, sending him to the ground amidst the laughter of his companions. Bolvar looked at the sight and sighed.

"Look at that. They have no idea what kind of hell we're going to be walking into. If the Scourge push into the Loch, it's more than likely that they'll lay siege to Ironforge and Gnomeregan. Our soldiery is even less prepared to fight in those brutal climates. If they keep heading south, they'll hit the Badlands and will more than likely raise all the ogres of that land to their side. This is going to be the worst conflict our people have ever faced in a long time," he said softly.

Marcus nodded, his previously light mood turning grim to match the Highlord's.

"I suppose you're right. What of the king, shall he be joining us?" he asked.

Bolvar scowled as he turned.

"The death of his wife still weighs heavily upon him. Far too heavily. He speaks to almost no one, save Anduin, myself, and the Lady Prestor. Even then we cannot seem to rouse him," Bolvar said unhappily.

"That's…not good," Marcus replied, a troubled look on his face.

"Indeed. I have nothing but faith and well wishes for those fighting in the Wetlands, but they cannot hold out alone forever. We must act, and soon! I shall join you, my friend. It's time to see if I'm still good for anything," Bolvar said gruffly.

"Good for-, Bolvar you're one of the best fighters I've ever known! You aren't even that old!" Marcus shot back.

The Highlord said nothing as they headed down the path towards the ever so slowly improving army of Stormwind.

0o0o00o0o​

A group of snarling fel hounds ran low across the ground towards their target. Their hooves churned the muddy ground of the Wetlands as they wove between stomping Infernals and marching Fel Guard. Two fell to a rain of explosives that shook the earth as the others continued on heedless of their fallen pack members.

Leaping over the shattered and smoking remains of a dwarvish tank, they fell upon their foe. Despite attacking from behind, one was killed by a backhand with a stormhammer almost immediately. The dwarf turned upon his heels to bash another with a small metal buckler while he struck again and again. His gore-soaked beard was given a fresh coat of demon blood as the stormhammer crushed the last fel hound's skull, the rest of the body flying past him on momentum from its attempted lunge.

"Ye haven't got me yet!" growled the Wildhammer.

Bloody wraps covered both arms from the elbow down, while a brand new eye-patch was strapped to his left eye socket. Scars, still red and fresh, crisscrossed up and down his bare chest. Despite the blood pouring down across his face, the dwarf simply bared his teeth at the sight of three Fel Guard running towards him.

"Fer Khaz Modan! Yaaaah!" bellowed another dwarven voice.

Leaping off of the same wrecked tank was a dwarf wielding two hammers, one with the horns of a ram and the other a flat rune-covered head. Both crashed into the enemies skulls as the dwarf landed. The heavily armored warrior whirled his hammers, another finding its way into a demons knee, sending the creature to the ground where the other pulped its skull.

Before the last demon could swing it's halberd down a sparking stormhammer crunched into its chest, lightning trailing behind it. The Wildhammer sprinted up to grab the shaft of the hammer and pull the head from the creature, blood and flesh coming out with it. One hand grasped the demons shoulder, while the other gripped the stormhammer as it struck into the creatures head, neck, and chest over and over again.

The creature fell to the ground dead within moments, the Wildhammer jumping off before he would be crushed under the Fel Guard's weight.

Spitting on its corpse, the dwarf turned to his cousin.

"What th' hell are ye doing here Magni?" the tattooed dwarf said as he wiped some of the blood from his head.

"I could ask ye the same Falstad! Charging out here alone, half-cocked like a damn fool!" Magni replied angrily.

Falstad glared at him in response, even as the din of battle echoed all around them. A group of dwarves in Ironforge colors appeared, huffing and puffing after their King ran ahead. As they took up formation around the two, Falstad finally deigned to speak.

"I don't have te' explain meself to ye Magni, yer the King o' Ironforge, not th' Wildhammers!" he ground out.

Magni sighed in exasperation.

"Ye think I don't know that? Falstad, I'm jes concerned that yer gonna get yerself killed out here alone!"

Falstad looked away as he idly shook the blood off of his stormhammer.

"So what? I'd die taking them down with me," he said quietly, rage still simmering in his voice.

An armored fist cracked into his jaw, sending the Wildhammer sprawling onto the ground. Almost immediately Falstad was up and snarling, stormhammer sparking.

"What th' hell was that fer?" he roared.

His response was another fist; though this time he caught it in one hand. The victory was short however as Magni's forehead met his own, sending him to the ground once more.

"It was fer being a damn fool, and that was fer being a twice-damned fool!" Magni shouted.

Before Falstad could stand, a heavy metal boot was placed upon his chest.

"Damn it all Falstad, you think yer the only one angry. That yer the only one grieving!" he continued.

"Ye think that just because I'm Bronzebeard doesn't mean I can't grieve about what happened?" he finished softly.

Falstad shook his head.

"Yer not Wildhammer, Magni. Ye don't understand…," he said, staring at the sky.

Magni snorted, his eyes darting about to ensure that no demons or undead were encroaching upon their positions.

"It doesn't matter that I'm not Wildhammer. It still hurts me heart knowing that you've lost yer home. We're kin, Falstad. No matter the name," he said sternly.

The boot was lifted off, and a hand was offered. Falstad looked at it warily before accepting and standing.

"Aye. Aye we are. I just…I want to hurt them; it burns me soul ever second that I'm not fighting 'em," the Wildhammer said helplessly.

The Bronzebeard placed a hand on Falstad's shoulder, a grim smile on his face.

"Me too, Falstad. But we both got to remember. We're the leaders of our people; we can't just go off alone, yeah? You're still th' Thane of th' Wildhammers, Peak or no. Ye've got a responsibility to lead yer people, just like I do. Come back to the camp, yeh need some rest," he said.

Falstad looked at the bloody bandages covering his arms and nodded, looking at the horizon as another flight of Gryphon riders fell upon a screeching Frost Wyrm.

"All right, all right. Let's…let's…" he trailed off as he squinted at something glinting on the horizon.

Magni cocked an eyebrow and turned to look as well.

"What th' hell is that?"

Falstad's eyes widened.

"I can't believe it," he whispered.

"What? What is it? Who is that, Falstad?" Magni pressed.

Falstad let out a whoop of joy, his stormhammer raised high.

"It's bloody Kul Tiras!"

0o0o0o0o0o0​

All along the western coast of the Wetlands were dozens of ships, whole batteries of cannon fire smashing into the flank of the enemy lines. Many let down massive gang-planks, from which the soldiers of Kul Tiras sprinted down to form camps, rapidly building defensive barricades even as the demonic hordes swung around to face them.

Several men and women set up ballistae and catapults that began to launch their payloads, while marksmen set up posts to begin firing their rifles from. A hail of arrow and crossbow bolts began to fall amongst the demon ranks, slaying droves.

Marching down one gang-plank from a Kul Tiras battleship came a man with greying hair. Though there were many lines to his face, there was a hard strength to him, only emphasized by his large broadsword and green tinted plate armor. He wore no helm, but his position and authority were still known to all who served under him.

Several men and women rode up to him before dismounting and saluting.

"Admiral Westwind, sir!" one said loudly.

The Admiral looked at them, and nodded.

"Report!" he barked out.

"Scouts report that the demons and Scourge have managed to push about halfway through the Wetlands, as previous intelligence indicated. We've set up numerous firing positions up and down the coast and a large number of the enemy are swinging towards our positions, relieving a significant amount of pressure off of various Ironforge positions," said the lieutenant in a clipped tone.

Barean Westwind rubbed his chin thoughtfully as he nodded, dismissing them all to their various posts. His gaze found the demons screaming towards his ships, and narrowed. A hand reached down to a barrel filled with rifles, grabbing one of the dwarven long-bores. One finger flicked off the safety even as the other hand placed some shots inside.

A particularly large abomination pulled ahead of the enemy ranks, its rolling eyes bouncing about wildly in too-wide sockets. As it screeched and raised one of its cleavers high, a dwarven hollow-point found its way into the skull, exploding and sending brain matter everywhere. Soon after the knees were shot out as well, sending the whole thing tumbling down.

Barean snorted as he tossed the smoking rifle back into the barrel and unsheathed his blade.

"Lord Admiral Proudmoore sends his regards!" he said under his breath as the battle was joined.

0o0o0o0o0​

Smoke filled the air of the still burning ruins of Stromgarde.

Through broken stone passageways, shattered wagons, and piles of bodies, the Cult of the Damned walked. A long train of meat wagons, piled high with bodes, stretched from the gate of Stromgarde Keep to a large cleared field beyond the fortress. Atop the soot covered battlements, two Cult members sat quietly munching on crusts of bread as they took a break from the monotonous task of dragging bodies about.

"We can't keep up this pace," one muttered to the other as she swept her hood back to reveal straw blonde hair.

"What do you mean?" her companion replied.

"This pace. Of bodies, and armies. The Scourge is mighty, and sure there are plenty of corpses left in Lordaeron, but we've been leaving a lot of them behind. We can revive skeletons and bodies and abominations and wyrms and all of them over and over again, but at the speed the demons are pushing us we can't manage them all," she grumbled.

The other Cult member sipped from a small cup of water as he nodded.

"Well, that's true, but they've been more than supplementing with their own forces. I mean, at this point there's more demonic forces on the battlefield than undead. It's why the majority of the Scourge is sitting in Hillsbrad around Durnholde with Lord Dagren. That demonic brute doesn't want to let us get any of the fighting done anymore," he said.

The woman began to rub circles into her temples with her fingers.

"That Azgalor creature is insane. I much preferred it when the dread lords were in command. They at least had some semblance of tactics. All that monster cares for is constant endless assaults in a single direction!" she said.

"It could also be because of what Trollbane managed before he got put down. Wouldn't you be pissed?" her companion asked.

She shrugged.

"I don't really know. If they're blades touch me, then something's gone wrong," she replied.

The male Cult member stood, wiping crumbs from his robes.

"Well, in the end, it's a good thing that the demons are the ones doing the majority of the fighting now. We would have lost a lot of our forces taking the Aerie if the demons hadn't done it themselves. But I suppose that now we'll have to see if that Mephistroth fellow can do any better than his predecessors," he said.

The woman snapped her fingers as she stood as well.

"Oh, right! That's what I wanted to tell you. I heard from a friend that it's still around, that Anetheron demon," she said.

"Really? I thought that it would have been killed for its failure by its masters. Where is it then?" he asked.

"I have no idea. That's the thing. Ah, it doesn't matter for us anyhow. We're on abomination duty; we've got to stitch together at least a dozen before the day is done," the woman replied.

The man groaned as the two began to head down the steps.

0o0o0o0o0o0​

Nek'rosh Skullcrusher ran through the mountain forests of the eastern Wetlands.

His chest worked as he desperately sucked in air, vaulting over a collapsed tree. All around him he could hear the sounds of battle as the Dragonmaw fought for their lives with blade and magic.

A raider was pulled from his wolf, his massive blade still swinging as the undead swarmed over him, his last defiant cry cut short. Nek'rosh stabbed down with his spear, but by the time he had cleared the ghouls off the raider was already clearly dead with his throat ripped out. The Chieftain of the Dragonmaw spun, stabbing through the ghoul that had leapt for him before throwing it to the ground, his boot crushing its skull.

"Lok'tar! Lok'tar!" he bellowed, the call echoing out from hundreds of throats as the battle raged.

Grey talons swiped down at him, raking across his shoulders. As black-red blood splattered the ground, the orc threw his spear through the chest of the gargoyle that had managed to strike him. Stomping over, he twisted the spear viciously in the flying creature's chest, killing it.

"The Dragonmaw will not be defeated by you mindless monsters!" he snarled as he ripped the spear out.

Green blood poured from the open hole in an abominations gut as it rushed towards him. There were arrows sticking out from all over its body, a sword and axe stuck into its back, yet it gave these wounds no thought as it whirled its many arms at the orc. A rusted cleaver nearly sliced him in two as he leapt back, spear stabbing forwards in a wild flurry.

"We won the First War, and survived the Second even when mighty Doomhammer himself fell!" he bellowed.

The spear went flying through the abominations stomach, poking fully out the other side. Its meat hooks swept down to miss the Dragonmaw as he rolled between its legs.

"We survived the Dragon Queen, and Deathwing himself!" he continued under his breath.

A hand grabbed the shaft of the spear, just behind the head, and pulled. Both hands grasped as the spear spun and stabbed into the creatures back, providing a handhold for Nek'rosh to climb atop the abominations back. The spear was raised and then struck down, impaling the head through the top of the skull.

"We are Dragonmaw! We are orcs!" he hissed as the undead fell to the ground unmoving.

Standing atop it, he raised his arms to the sky.

"We are Horde!" he shouted, even as dozens of bleeding and wounded warriors appeared out of the trees, following his cries.

The gathered orcs turned at the sound of dark laughter. Many raised their weapons as they turned outwards in a circle, Nek'rosh at the center.

"So you are, so you are. Imagine my luck, finding the Horde, here, in the very mountains not a dozen miles away!" The voice called out.

From the trees came a winged demon, corruption seeping out from the hoof prints it left behind. A dull orange glow surrounded it, even in the darkness of the woods. It bore great claws, each sharp enough to cut through a puny human while its large wings unfurled behind it. A dark aura of malice covered the demon as it continued to chuckle, powerful magic swirling about its arms.

Nek'rosh was unimpressed.

"I would rethink your definition of luck if you believe facing the Horde to be such, demon," he snarled.

The Nathrezim chuckled.

"Mmmm, perhaps. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Anetheron," it said with a curt bow.

Rising from it, the demon snapped its fingers. The orcs growled angrily to themselves even as they tightened their formation around their leader while the very forest around them seemed to come alive with eyes that glowed with fel power. Slinking fel hounds, darkly chuckling eredar, and of course the many doomguard that were present as well dwarfed the remaining orcs.

"The Horde once served the Legion. We have decided that you will do so again…" Anetheron said lightly.

The orcs as one roared their defiance.

"Never!" Nek'rosh bellowed.

Then Anetheron smiled wildly, and with a twitch of his fingers sent the demons swarming forward.

"We do not ask. We demand."

The forests of the eastern Wetlands lit up with screams that would continue throughout the night.

 

[torroar]

Note: Unbeta'd, subject to rewriting as needed like always.​

The Order of the Black Heart: Part Thirteen
New Paths and Old
A Warcraft III AU​

An Oasis Within The Barrens

With the sun long gone, the shining moonlight of the night made an eerie glow upon the dusty plains of the Barrens. It illuminated every small tree, and cast strange and twisting shadows amongst the various oases of the land. Vegetation was rare, but around these small blessed pools, life flourished. Near the side of one particular oasis, just within the farthest confines of its scraggly vegetation, smoke rose into the air.

A skinned boar lay slowly turning over a fire. Juices dripped from it, sizzling when they hit the flames one after another. Thick slabs of marbled meat had been cut and rubbed down with seasoning before being carefully placed along a sturdy wooden rack. Over to the side lay the boars hide, already stretched out in the middle of the tanning process. In the shade of one of the trees was a single unfurled bedroll, half-opened. The only thing guarding the perimeter of this small camp were a dozen stakes, each with the still dripping head of a snarling Quilboar.

Through the underbrush of the oasis came the sound of snuffling. The dead Quilboar heads were the only ones who saw a bear poke its muzzle through the brush. It walked forward into the small clearing, its thick and shaggy fur easily turning aside the bramble as it continued on its quest. Leathery pads brought the ursine creature closer until dark, curious, and hungry eyes were but a few inches from the boar carcass. Though much had been cut away, a large amount of meat still remained on its thick bones. For a moment, everything was still.

Then with a single large chomp and a casual toss the bear moved its food away from the fire. Thumping over, it had scarfed down several warm mouthfuls before the clatter of falling wood made it look up. Wreathed in the shadows was the startled occupant of the camp, fuel for the fire forgotten at their feet. The two looked at each other, the moment almost frozen in time, before the bear made the attempt to take another bite of boar.

With a muted growl the original hunter of the boar shoulder checked the interloper, one hand clutching at the weapon slung along their back as they went. In response the bear reared back to stand and swipe wildly with its claws. Yet none of the intended strikes managed to hit the target, but before the bear could further react its opponent had responded.

A slice of moonlight briefly illuminated the pass of a gleaming axe before it disappeared into the darkness. Roaring in pain, the bear fell onto its side as a thin stream of blood dripped down from its stomach.

A cry of outrage came from the darkness. The bear rolled to stand once more on its four legs and looked to the source as the hunter did the same. Bursting from the shadows of the night came a hulking man, furs covering his shoulders and head. What was far more pressing were the two wicked edges along the enormous axes that he carried. Both swung forwards at the same time, forcing the hunter to roll beneath the blow and rise up from behind.

The larger single axe flashed forwards, a harsh whistle following its movement through the air. Clanging against one of the fur covered man's axes, it held there as the two ground their weapons against one another. Then the larger man's second axe began to chop to the side and below, forcing the hunter to disengage and leap backwards. Less than a second passed before they crashed into one another again, axes flying.

There were no words, no calls or blandishments, only the quiet grunts of effort as they strained against one another. The man's bronze skin was scarcely seen in the light before he was shoved back, the whistling axe scoring a cut along his forearm. Growling, he advanced in turn, twin axes becoming a whirling dervish that strained and then broke through the defenses of his opponent. Though the hunter possessed a frame corded with taut muscle, his opponent was a towering fighter that was both taller and wider with squat and thick muscle. Cast to the ground, the hunter merely skipped twice to the left before to the widened eyes of the man came a flickering trio of his foe, each dancing and leaping through the air.

It was at this moment of time that the bear re-entered the fray, bowling through the mirror images, claws and fangs ripping and tearing. Two of the images faded, while the third was clipped and sent blood flying. A spray of black blood splattered across moonlit ground. The dual-wielding man halted abruptly, his eyes bouncing between the blood and the one it had spilled from.

"Misha! Back!" he said in a harsh bark.

The bear growled and made to attack again.

"Misha!" the man growled again.

Finally the bear gave a whine bowed its head in subservience. The hunter straightened.

Slowly, warily, both warriors side-stepped into the moonlight outside of the shade of the oasis. The moonlight bathed both, and so it was they finally got good looks at one another. Both breathed hard from exertion, chests heaving as they sucked down air. Long faded scars covered both, though several light cuts and wounds had been opened up across each other's bodies.

The hunter's skin glistened with sweat, their jet black hair wild and unrestrained. There was no emblem, no markings on their green flesh. All that they wore was a simple rugged pair of tanned hide pants, with not even shoes to cover their feet. A barrel chest heaved, but there was not even a trace of weariness in the whole of the muscled frame.

In contrast the larger fighter wore various pelts woven into a single set of clothing, a snarling wolf head covering the upper half of their face. While the hunter was amazingly thin for one of their race, they still possessed more muscle than a human man twice over. The fighter instead was simply thick. Forearms larger than some torsos almost imperceptibly flexed as the hafts of the twin axes which remained raised creaked.

Both stared at the other silently save for their own hard breaths.

The moment stretched on, before after a short sigh the hunter lowered his axe to the dusty ground of the Barrens with a muffled thump. Perhaps, in another time, the thought of doing such a thing first would have been unthinkable. Here, it wasn't worth it, as there was no pride to save. The twin axes soon found their way toward the earth as well.

"It has been a long time since I have seen one of the Warsong. Though the last time I did so I remember fighting alongside them, not against," the fighter said with an eyebrow raised in question.

"That…was a long time ago, son of the Mok'Nathal. I am Warsong no longer," the hunter replied, their voice flat.

At this the fighters eyes widened.

"That is…improbable. The Grom Hellscream I-," he attempted to say.

The hunter cut their arm through the air.

"Hellscream no longer. Warsong no longer. I am no one. Nothing, save for my duty."

The orc shook his head, his face twisted into something between satisfaction and sadness at his fate.

"Hmmph."

When Rexxar, son of Leoroxx, had gone against the pacifistic wishes of the Mok'Nathal to join the Horde and walk upon Azeroth, he had been disowned. Divorced of family and clan. It was not a pleasant existence to have.

A large hand clasped a scarred green shoulder, causing Grom to look up at Rexxar's face. If one were to look past the scars and scrabbly features and squinted hard they might have seen what could be charitably described as a kind expression.

"Tell me your tale, Grom, and let my company beat back the stifling dark of the night."

A few minutes later found the two resting on the logs that the former Chieftain of the Warsong Clan had retrieved. Neither spoke, the warriors focusing much more on the delicious haunches of meat they feasted upon. There would be time for words after their empty bellies had been filled. Also sitting near the fire was the now resting bear which was focused on consuming its own portion of the meal, a set of bandages now covering its stomach.

A loud burp from the orc signified his readiness to speak, to which Rexxar looked up and nodded.

"I am damned. I have been for a very long time," Grom began, all emotion scoured from his voice.

His audience stilled to listen.

"Through my foolishness, many have died. To prove my worthiness as Chieftain I led raids deep into ogre lands, and for my pride my wife died," the orc spoke softly, knuckles popping from the pressure of his clenching fists.

Then, with not prompting, he laughed. It was a sickly thing, a dark chuckle which brought a small chill to Rexxar's bones.

"I called her weak, and left her to bleed to death. I called myself strong, and damned my clan."

Dark eyes found Rexxar's, and within them the half-ogre watched tortured memories play themselves out in the suddenly silent orc.

"It was me who drank first, and most deeply, of Mannoroth's blood. I corrupted myself and our people willingly."

Rexxar said nothing, though the small tin cup he had brought to his lips found its way carefully back down to the ground.

"Thus, the bloodlust which consumed our people and led to things like S-Shattrath, and that damned Path of Glory-" and at this Grom stood, roaring to the skies.

He raised Gorehowl, and for a moment he contemplated simply throwing it towards the stars so that perhaps the light of those distant suns would finally burn the oceans of innocent blood which coated the blade away. But the moment passed, and the iron cage of will which had defined him before he had ever passed through the Dark Portal surrounded him once more.

"Paved with the bones of the dead, never to be buried honorably or sent to their ancestors," he finally managed to snarl.

The Mok'Nathal which had once fought at the Warsong Clan's side during the Second War…did nothing. The man had no wish to interrupt something which had clearly been building for some time in the orcs chest. So he watched as Grom slammed back down onto the log, his grip of Gorehowl slackening, and said nothing. He watched as the orc lifted his free hand and stared down at it, perhaps remembering the waves of blood that had been splashed upon it.

"All my fault," Grom whispered.

But then his hand tightened into a fist, and Rexxar was surprised to see a small amount of fire enter the orcs eyes, a fire that had not been present at all up until that point.

"But Thrall would save us. He brought back the shamans we had turned out backs upon, and returning the spirits to our people. The same souls that I damned, he saved. For that, the entire orcish race owes him a debt of gratitude that can never be truly repaid."

For a wonder Rexxar detected the pride which drenched the praise for this 'Thrall' personage. The Mok'Nathal had never heard of him, and even though the fact that the name Thrall was simply another for slave, he trusted the orcs judgment enough to try and withhold his own. Unfortunately Grom caught the look in the half-breeds eyes and glared hard enough to twitch Rexxar's instincts towards one of his axes before he realized what he was doing.

"He does not deserve your contempt, Rexxar, and I will tell you why."

The sinewy orc splayed his arms wide and allowed his face to twist into a mocking grimace.

"He did not know of how I damned our people, and when I did tell him, do you know what his response was?"

Rexxar opened his mouth but his words were swallowed by Grom's own earsplitting yell.

"HE FORGAVE ME!" the orc bellowed as he shot to a standing position.

The sheer volume would have bowled over a lesser man, but as it was Rexxar was only nearly flung off of the log he sat upon. The various animals of the oasis let loose with their own cacophony of panic as the wild yell of the man named Hellscream echoed across the Barrens. Four legged animals sprinted from the brush and scattered while birds erupted from the tree tops.

"ME! Oh, the shame and horror in his eyes when I told him of my crimes. Of the crimes of our people! Of Blackhand and Doomhammer, of Durotan and Kargath, of all the orcish 'heroes' that I had weaned him on after his escape from the human camps. He trusted me, and in return I nearly broke his faith in his own people!" the orc ranted, chest heaving as he paced back and forth.

"For the first time the blood haze has lifted from my eyes, and it is only now that I know I am damned. There was never any blood curse like we let Thrall believe, only a price which we gladly paid! But still he forgave me…" Grom continued, only faltering towards the end.

For the first time, Rexxar decided to interrupt.

"Then why are you here, and not with this 'Thrall'? Why do you forsake your name as Hellscream and your position as Chieftain?" he asked while pulling another morsel of meat from the leg he held.

At this, Grom growled, and Rexxar was abruptly reminded of the screaming greenskin who had waded through blood and bodies which reached up to his knees that the half ogre had fought with on another continent. It was a noise which had reduced the footmen and even some knights of Stormwind to puddles of fear.

"Because I could still smell the stench of demons amongst the camp in which I had been prepared for Thrall to end my life. Because all my time under Mannoroth's chains has made me a bit more sensitive to the presence of demons," and at that Grom's lips peeled back to a snarl once more, "like a dog smelling its masters."

Rexxar's eyes widened at the words, and Grom nodded at his look before a dark rage appeared in his eyes.

"After all we had been through, all we had done, and all Thrall had done to save us…some wretched bastards remained convinced that they could continue their worship and usage of demons from under his nose!" the orc growled.

"If it had not been for me, they would have remained there festering in the flesh of the Horde until who knows when. But…I was there. I could practically taste the taint in the air surrounding them. Some, I had known for years. Others? From other clans. But they were still warlocks all the same," Grom continued.

The former chieftain paused then to take a deep swig from the flask of water propped up against the log. To Rexxar's surprise however he did not expand on the previous topic and seemingly switched to another entirely.

"Thrall would not punish me, he could not bring himself to do it. Not when I embarrassed myself before him," and before Rexxar could do more than raise an eyebrow the orc continued, "with the snot running down my face to intermingle with the tears. The Doomhammer should have fallen upon my head the very instant I finished my tale but it didn't."

Grommash Hellscream was not proud of many things, but one of the latest things he was definitely not proud of was the way he had wept on the floor of his Warchief's hut. His remorse and shame had swallowed much of his pride, but he could still be embarrassed for crying like that. But that was fine, for in the depths of his despair and the thunderous rage of Thrall at learning of the demonic taint still flowing from the fingertips of some of the orcs under his wing a solution had been found.

"If he would not," Grom spoke, his voice now oddly quiet, "then I would be the deliverer of my own punishment. Thrall bandied the word redemption about but it is unlikely that I will ever be able to face Mannoroth and slay him. No, no I decided to take a small line from Kargath's own policies no matter how distasteful the rest of them were."

Then the orc tilted his jaw up, and Rexxar nearly gasped at the sight of the tender green flesh of Grom's lower jaw. As the Warsong Chieftain, an incredibly painful process had been undertaken to tattoo that same flesh black. But now not a spot of that ink remained. As Rexxar continued to stare, Grom let a hand rise up and rub the newly 'clean' skin.

"It is only at Thrall's behest that what you see now is not a mess of scars considering that I tore that layer of flesh away with my bare hands. He struggled mightily to heal the damage, then nearly killed me in outrage for doing the action at all," the orc said with an almost empty chuckle.

"So you abdicated your position as Chieftain. Then…willfully turned outcast?" Rexxar asked carefully.

Gorehowl found its way to Grom's lap as its owner laid the weapon flat, fingers tracing the grooves.

"Thrall could stop me from killing myself, and he was correct that it would be a waste of my life," the orc said as ran a finger down the edge, drawing back almost instantly as the skin was cut.

Rexxar shivered slightly at the look in the gaze that Grom levelled upon his weapon.

"But he cannot...cannot…stop me from using it up. Especially not for such a worthy cause as mine..." the orc murmured.

It occurred to Rexxar at that point that perhaps the revelation of being completely free of demonic taint and control and then living without it for however the orc had…might have broken something. Enough at least to bring one of the fiercest and most strong willed orcs in history to pull away entirely from the Horde and his Clan.

"What cause is that?" Rexxar asked, his voice equally soft.

He then watched as Grom gripped Gorehowl's edges once again, hard enough to turn green knuckles white.

"When Thrall and I searched for…and found the demon serving wretches that hid within the Horde, we mirrored the work of another orc many years ago. Much like Doomhammer," and then an unrestrained smile found its way onto the grim orcs lips, "we purged the warlocks in the Horde's ranks!"

Rexxar smiled as well. He had joined the Horde and had fought along the Warsong only after Doomhammer had slaughtered the Shadow Council and as many warlocks as could be reached. Only after Doomhammer swore to change the Horde into an honorable gathering once more had one of the sons of the Mok'Nathal found his way into their ranks.

But then the joy began to drain from Grom.

"We could not afford a panic, not then, not with so many of those unaware surrounding us. We had to move in secret, killing in the night. I could feel them, and so they could not hide," he said with a small hint of satisfaction even as he began to frown in earnest.

Fingers began to tap back and forth across Gorehowl's body as the orc thought back to that night.

"Some realized their companions were falling, no doubt through some form of their dark magics. They feared for their lives, and rightly so…and then they fled. With their followers behind them, through portal or on foot, they ran."

Rexxar made a small noise of realization as the truth of Hellscream's quest became clear to him.

"And you followed. That is your proclaimed duty, and your self-imposed penance," the half-breed said.

Grom nodded as he tapped a single finger down the length of Gorehowl. With each tap along that razor sharp edge another drop of blood was drawn.

"Neeru Fireblade. Jug'kar Grim'rod. Yarrog Baneshadow. Klass Metalfist. Al'arr Darkhills. Traitors all of them," the orc spat their names like the sewage they were. "So long as they and the rest of their misbegotten ilk who fled live, I swore a blood oath that I shall not return to the Horde. Only then can I begin to try and collect the paltry scraps of honor that remains to me."

There was silence for a scant moment before Rexxar stood, drawing Grom's eye. Then, before the orc could do any more than blink, one of Rexxar's own axes found its edge driven across the half ogre's palm to send a splash of blood sizzling into the fire. Then that massive hand was thrust over the fire as one warrior stared into another's eyes.

"A nobler hunt I have never seen nor heard of. I would join you on your quest to restore your honor and slay these demon slavering creatures who wear the guise of your people…if you would have me."

For a moment, there was silence.

"The quest was meant for me alone…but I will not deny anyone the chance to slay such beasts as them!" the orc said with a savage grin.

Hand grasped hand, and blood mixed with blood.

The hunt was on.

-----------------------------​

Deep Within The Deadmines Of Westfall

​

"We'll strike here, here, and here. Make sure that the traps are laid down correctly and we can all come home tonight rich," a man rasped harshly.

The leather of the man's gloves creaked as he stabbed a finger down at a massive parchment map strewn out across a large oak wood table. All around, men and women nodded approvingly or spoke to each other in whispered tones. None would actually disagree with the plan, after all, they always worked no matter how dangerous they seemed these days.

Though they were not part of any true nation's military or a particular mercenary group, they were dressed in fine equipment indeed. The best steel in Azeroth made up their weapons, the most expensive hardened leathers and armors that nobles could purchase girded their frames. Nothing about them was truly standardized, each preferring his or her personal choice of weapon and gear. Some held crossbows, others axes, some a multitude of daggers. Others still carried no weapon at all but the powerful magics they could bring to bear.

Not all mages came or went to Dalaran.

However, one thing marked them all, something which symbolized their purpose, their mission, their allegiance, and boldly stated it to all who knew of their organization.

A red mask.

The man who stood at the head of the table, Edwin VanCleef, was the one who had decided that they would raid one of the latest Stormwind convoys carrying arms and armor for a resurgent army. He grinned madly from behind his own red mask. Once a simply bandana he had used to cover his mouth and nose from the dust and grime of his work as a stonemason, it was now a symbol of his people.

The Defias Brotherhood.

Every drop of Stormwinder blood spilled was like ecstasy for him. For their betrayal, for their crimes, not only just the House of Nobles but the whole of the city of Stormwind would be made to suffer. Perhaps, one day, even the whole kingdom…

But then there were the sounds of screams, and every head at the meeting whipped upwards at the sight. Hands fell to weapons, even as one they turned to face the door. Even as they did so, the screams raised in intensity, as well as the sound of alarms going off.

"What is going on!?" Edwin growled, even as he slammed the door of the private alcove open.

The anger in his face gave way to complete and utter shock.

The Deadmines were aflame.

Hundreds of Defias ran back and forth, screaming, as vast gouts of flame crashed down upon them. Torchlight was utterly replaced by the vast columns of flame being spewed by swooping monsters, wings sweeping back and forth. VanCleef stared, the blood draining from his face, the scaled beasts roaring with glee as they slaughtered his brothers and sisters. The cavern was enormous, it had to be to support the Defias pirate ships, yet not it was allowing for what could only be one thing to assault his home for more than a decade.

Dragons, he mouthed silently.

One of the larger beasts crashed down onto one of the ogre enforcers, tearing into the enormous ball of fat and muscle with glee. So fast were the dragon's jaws that barely any blood escaped before the whole of the ogres body was chewed up and swallowed. Then the beast turned its gaze onto Edwin and his top commanders.

"Food," it snarled rearing back and blasting a wide cone of flame towards them.

Only years of reflexes saved the Defias founder's life as he just barely ducked out of the way. Wood splintered and cracked as the immense heat and pressure slammed into it, even as those who had not yet exited the doorway were scorched into blackened skeletons before even half of them could begin to scream. In less than ten seconds the top operatives and commanders of the entire Defias organization were slain.

Scrabbling onto the rock and gravel of the cavern floor, Edwin struggled to get to his feet and run. Even as he did so he could feel the gaze of the beast upon his back.

"Dragons. Bloody dragons?!" he whispered incredulously to himself as he continued to run.

There was barely any time to think, but he found the time as he leapt over burning scaffolding and collapsing framework. The beautiful skeleton to the juggernaut that he had slowly been building for longer than his daughter had been alive in secret was utterly engulfed in dragon fire. It seemed like the flames were licking up the walls and consuming the ceiling itself. All his work and all his plans were burning in the caverns as more dragons than he had ever seen in his entire life poured from the tunnels and from the opening which lead to the sea.

He had no idea what madness had engulfed the world these past few months, but now it seemed to have finally erupted here. At first they had scoffed of the reports of actual walking dead from the other side of the continent. But then things had gotten worse, and worse, and then all of a sudden Lordaeron was gone. Then Quel'Thalas and much of their more unscrupulous contacts for certain artifacts and scrolls, and then it seemed like there were demons coming out of the Light's bunghole there were so many of them.

It was hard to believe, so far down in the south, but now the Defias had monsters of their own demolishing everything in their home base. Edwin snarled at the thought even as he saw some of his men successful get a spiked net around one of the smaller drakes. Blades flashed and the roaring beast was soon squealing as it was liberally cut apart. The Defias wouldn't be taken by these animals without a fight, Edwin thought to himself angrily.

But then four more drakes came upon the scene and unleashed themselves upon the unsuspecting Defias who were cut apart. The net was broken, and the only injured dragon in the entire cavern shook itself for a single moment before returning to the fight. A million different things ran through his mind, but finally a single thought he'd had earlier came bursting to the fore.

"Vanessa!" he cried aloud.

The thought had come unbidden, but now it consumed him. For standing near one of the cavern pathways which led to his private chambers was his little girl, frozen in fear with one hand on the wall. Her small teddy bear which was one of the few mementos left of her mother and his wife was clutched in a death grip while her small floral dress was billowed back and forth by the gusts created by flapping dragon's wings. There was no time for further ranting or thinking as the man changed direction towards his daughter. All around him the Defias died, but his thoughts no longer stayed on them.

Vanessa VanCleef opened her mouth to cry out, only to have her eyes widen in surprise when a slim yet strong hand of creamy skin found its way around her face. Edwin could only pump his legs harder as his daughter was pulled back into the tunnel, her arms flailing. A burning gnoll nearly bowled the man over as it screeched and ran for the waters below only to find a dragon landing on it seconds after the master of the Defias skirted around it.

Finally reaching the tunnel, the master stonemason rounded the corner at a dead one sprint, cutlass held at the ready. His fury guttered out to be replaced with fear, however, when he was forced to a halt at the sight in front of him.

A half dozen massive scaled bipeds stood in the wide tunnel, their heads scraping the ceilings. He had no idea what made up their armor, but their enormous halberds looked sharp enough to cut diamond. Each one was more than three times his size, but it was not them that he focused in on, but the woman dressed in a ridiculously luxurious set of silk robes that was currently holding his daughter in a harsh grip if the weak struggling of his daughter was anything to go by.

She smiled, the woman, when he stopped.

"Hello," she said demurely, as if she was not holding a hand over his daughters mouth so hard that he could already see the bruises forming.

As if she was not surrounded by six monstrous scaled creatures.

As if the whole of the Defias Brotherhood was being slaughtered like cattle in their home.

"Get your hands off of my daughter," he finally managed to say.

The woman looked at him, tapping her free hand against plump lips, before finally shaking her head.

"Hmmm….no. No, I think not," she said calmly.

Edwin growled, yet the moment he took a step towards her the two forward most creatures swung their halberds down to bar his way. Their answering rumbles shook his bones. A veteran of the First and Second War, Edwin could only speculate on whether or not he'd be able to cut through all six of the guard creatures and rescue his daughter.

"You see…in any other set of circumstances I would be perfectly willing to let my toys play with one another for as many years as needed," the woman said, her smile growing in size.

She raised a single delicate finger and one of the hulks knelt, its arms outstretched and palms open to receive the still wriggling body of Vanessa VanCleef. The little girl who had not even seen her first decade of life squealed only once before fingers bigger than her arms and legs closed around her, trapping the human in a cage of flesh and scales. Her little fists beat uselessly against the monster which stood again to its full height, secure in the knowledge that the girl held no ability with which to escape.

The woman sighed sadly while rubbing both of her now free hands to some semblance of cleanliness.

"Alas, when one must prepare for an unceasing Legion of foes, one cannot afford a resource and time drain such as the Defias. What I need is an army of trained and armor clad mortals, not a smattering of disgusting barbaric cat's paws," she said while shrugging.

As Edwin watched she appeared to stretch and pop her back, even as she kept a single open eye on him. The ridiculousness of the situation finally peaked. The Defias were being utterly destroyed, his daughter was in the hands of…whatever those things were, and he still didn't know who the hell this woman was!

"Who…are…you?!" the elder VanCleef snarled.

The woman cocked her head at him before throwing it back and laughing.

"Do you truly not recognize me, Edwin?" she said with amusement.

Then he watched, stupefied, as a swirl of magic surrounded her. In less than a blink, the woman who looked like a noble was gone…replaced by a dusky skinned woman that the Defias had presumed dead a long time ago. She had been a beloved leader, one of the original members, a woman who had been part of the Stonemasons as long as Edwin. In fact, she had been the first to push for aggressive responses to the House of Noble's treachery. So much so that early on she was tragically killed in one of the initial attacks on Stormwind's bastard rulers.

Few of the modern members knew her name, but Edwin did.

"Vanessa?!" he whispered in surprise.

It had been her that he had named his daughter in honor of. For the fiery and quietly assured woman who had lambasted the House of Nobles for refusing to pay them for all of their hard work, who had been one of Edwin's dearest friends. Who was supposed to be dead.

'Vanessa' shrugged. Where before there had been a delicate silk dress, there were now the hard leathers of one of the first true Defias bandits. Old faded scars that Edwin barely remembered were present once more on her face, and the large calluses on her hands remained just as well.

"In a manner of speaking," the woman said in a much huskier voice.

Yet before Edwin could speak again, 'Vanessa' interrupted.

"Considering I killed the woman early on and took her place, I suppose you could say that I was indeed 'Vanessa' for a time."

Edwin felt something cold trickle down his spine.

"What-," he managed before being interrupted by another flash of energy which ended with the woman once more in her 'original' form.

In response to his incomplete question, she laughed. Again. But where before each time she had done it had infuriated him further, this final peal of amusement was much…darker. Almost inhumanly so.

"Do you know how easy it was to convince the House of Nobles to not pay the Stonemasons? Harder than you would think, and if anything I would say that pushing you stupid humans to attack one another and put on silly little red masks was easier," she said with laughter in her voice.

"Who are you!?!" came Edwin's strangled response.

The woman looked at him through half-lidded eyes.

"Now…why on earth would I tell you that?"

Edwin made to respond, only to release a small bloody gurgle. His eyes trailed downwards to see the pale skin of the woman's arm as it slammed its way through his chest. Behind him the faint sound of a beating heart could be heard before an inhumanly strong hand crushed it. Slowly his eyes rose to see the unchanged expression of the smiling woman, now splattered with his blood. Far behind her, he could see the screaming visage of his daughter as she struggled to get through the immovable fingers of her captor, but he could not hear. Slowly his senses died, with hearing being the first. For a moment, he struggled to move, to fight, to run, to do anything, but it was no use. The woman withdrew her arm, and Edwin VanCleef fell down to the ground, dead.

It would be a mercy, as it turned out.

For the human shell of the dragon Onyxia grinned madly as she turned back to her drakanoid bodyguards. With the Defias removed and her own agents cutting so much of the fat which the kingdom had accumulated things were well on the way towards providing a bulwark of mortal flesh to blunt the assault of the Legion while their betters prepared. She needed a strong Stormwind for that, and as such needed to reverse more than a decade of work in far less than that time.

Reptilian eyes gazed up at the silent child who seemed dumbstruck by what had just happened. She would not gain the chance to do anything about it, however, for once more did the 'human' woman known as Katrana Prestor snapped her fingers.

Giant clawed fingers closed completely and without hesitation.

Blood dripped down to the floor, accompanied by a small teddy bear.

Katrana Prestor leaned down to grab it with one hand. It would make a nice little donation to one of the orphanages back in Stormwind. In the meantime, there were still a few dozen Defias left to kill…and it had simply been too long since she had allowed herself a little…fun.

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Gelbin was getting tired. In any other time or place he would find it a novel experience. Throughout his entire lifetime he had very rarely been pushed to such an extreme level of exhaustion without allowing himself to sleep. Oh, how he missed sleep. But he could not, not while the lower third of Gnomeregan was aflame and filled with disgusting squealing savages.

If you had asked the High Tinker a few months ago what it would take for a foe to claim even an inch of Gnomeregan, he would have smirked. He would have told them that it would require hundreds of millions of foes, wielding technology at least on par with Ironforge and a vitality and general toughness of ogres and orcs. They would have to be brilliant tacticians and combatants, and would have to possess the same sort of inviolable power that wondrous Quel'Thalas had commonly been believed to possess. Such was the extent of gnomish pride in their home and intelligence.

He would not have said hundreds of thousands of loin cloth wearing creatures wielding clubs made simply out of bone or rock. A good many simply using their fists. The vaunted technology of the tinkering gnomes had been smashed to pieces and left as scrap as the mad creatures swarmed upwards. It was unprecedented. They had been seen coming by deep earth scans. There had been preparations, refurbished defenses, cannon emplacements, mines, robot defense teams, and everyone had known.

No plan survives contact with an enemy whose rocky skin was hardier than some metal alloys, or the brutish strength of a being much larger than the creatures had any right to be. Classified as 'troggs', the swarming creatures had swallowed the bottom third of Gnomeregan in a tide of sparking wires, broken metal, and broken hearts. Never before had the gnomes faced such a foe, not even in the Horde. Worse than that, they were alone.

The armies of Ironforge had streamed forth to the Wetlands and the Loch, and the army of Stormwind was far to the south and would be too slow in reaching them. Besides, the gnomes may have had their pride shaken, but it was not yet destroyed. They were determined to defeat the trogg menace on their own so that their taller allies could focus on the demonic threat fully without fear of reprisal. As such they had locked their outer doors, determined if nothing else than to keep the troggs back from even thinking about attacking Ironforge.

Gelbin wiped away some of the strange mixture of soot, blood, and sweat which had become the regular coating that many of the front line gnomes possessed. His spider tank continued to battle beneath his expert ministrations, but time and constant battle was taking its toll. Twin machine guns spat hot explosive rounds into the troggs, while the razor tipped edges of the legs were used as four deadly spears. A dozen troggs died in a few eye blinks, but only ever more came.

The High Tinker gazed out across the embattled entrance to the very inner center of Gnomeregan, and wept at the sight of so many dead gnomes, their little bodies trampled beneath rocky trogg feet. The bottom third of their beloved city had been lost, but the gnomes were determined not to lose any more ground. As High Tinker, Gelbin had authorized the usage of untested and exotic technologies, and it was all that was holding the monsters back. Lightning cannons, laser gatling guns, explosives aplenty, and even a few disturbingly powerful chemical and radiation specced bombs that had been 'borrowed' from Sicco Thermaplugg's private chambers, anything that the gnomes had which they thought might help, they used.

Some were more useful, and others, like the ridiculous 'chicken beam' that turned rampaging troggs into equally sized, equally rocky, and equally furious sized chickens, seemed a bit less useful. But the gnomes would not surrender. Not in their very home. Not here, not ever.

Gelbin's spider tank smashed a few more troggs into gravel before he was forced to fight for his very life personally when a larger trogg somehow managed to leap atop the chassis and attack the cockpit directly. The little gnome leapt away as a bone club bigger than his biggest wrench smashed down directly onto the controls to reach into one of many secret compartments. A single tap, and a lance of energy struck the High Tinker. The trogg which had been intent on smashing him stared as the gnome disappeared and then reappeared back at the command post of the gnomes which was for the moment too heavily fortified even for the troggs to break.

The leader of the gnomish people leaned back as several attendants swarmed him, knowing that in a short while he would have to return to the battle. His only hope was that his best friend Sicco was having a better time of things than him.

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Capital City of Lordaeron

"Do you ever think that maybe somewhere down the line we went wrong?" a black robed woman asked as she sat atop the roof of a slightly burnt out house.

Her companion, a similarly robed man sitting next to her, shrugged as he gazed down below. Beneath the two ran a horde of ghouls, aimlessly going through the winding streets of the decrepit corpse of the capital. Long fallen nearly three months ago, the city named after the nation it led remained full of swarming undead and their attendant members in the Cult of the Damned.

"What do you mean?" the man finally asked.

The woman rolled her shoulders as she looked out across the undead 'citizenry' that King Arthas had sent to 'repopulate' his precious home in life.

"With the demons. They've practically overtaken the campaign at this point. Even the Order of the Black Heart is being reorganized."

The man threw a stone down and watched as a ghoul turned so fast to follow the noise that one of its dangling eyeballs finally flew free before whipping his head back up in astonishment.

"Wait, what? I hadn't heard anything about that!" he boggled

The woman threw a stone of her own before responding.

"Oh absolutely. With the demons running the fight it seems like the King is finally getting back to ruling his people. The Order is being split up across the kingdom to run things. I heard that Sir Gavinrad is being given command of Durnholde Keep and is to keep order over Hillsbrad."

Her companion stared at her before lying to look at the stars.

"So that's it then? We let the demons do…whatever it is they're here to do, and sit back?"

The woman gave a small lilting giggle before nodding.

"That's right. The Scourge won. Now we get to sit back…and relax," she replied happily.

For a few moments the two simply remained there in silence, gazing out across the city as abominations and ghouls ran through the streets and geists leapt from rooftop to rooftop. High above the city flew frost wyrms in abundance, surrounded with flocks of undead or plagued gryphons. For those twisted members of the Cult of the Damned, it was a beautiful day indeed as the sepulchral scent of the Scourge began to sink into the very stones of the capital. Thus they barely noticed the light thump of geists feet atop the rooftop they rested upon.

They did notice however when it came closer. The geists were supposed to keep jumping and moving, and it was rare that they would approach any of the Cult without being called.

"Go away little thing, go…find a piece of rock to play with or something," the woman said waving her hand at the creature.

When comparatively enormous green fingers wrapped about her wrist, she attempted to shriek. The man turned, his eyes suddenly wide before a blade found its way into his skull, before three fingered hands slowly let his body drift to the ground.

Zul'jin said nothing as the woman slowly began to suffocate under his grasp before letting her drop back down to the roof. She attempted to scrabble, even as more forest troll rogues peered through their sack clothes and rags which had let them pass into the city of the dead with ease. When she attempted to scream she found the wicked blade of the last Amani warlord at her throat.

"Now den," Zul'jin chuckled as he leaned in close, "ya gonna tell me allll about what ya gone and heard 'bout dis…Orda of da Black Heart…"

A few hours later, a geist bounced onto the rooftop, and nearly tripped on the abundance of torn black cloth. Instead, it just barely managed to right itself, free its tangled leg, and keep bouncing away. There was nothing of interest on that roof, only the scent of blood hours old.

There wasn't even any meat to poke at.

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Western Plaguelands, Hearthglen

Throughout the ruined town of Hearthglen were hundreds of tents, all a mishmash of colors and heraldries from myriad nations. A faded green and gold anchor for Kul Tiras, red fists of Stromgarde, and even the rare grey of Gilneas were present. But by far, the largest numbers of flags were the once proud blue and gold of Lordaeron. Cook fires sent columns of smoke to impact harmlessly into the sickly yellow haze that filled the sky, the meat cooked to charring to destroy any rot or maggots.

Though some wore threadbare rags, the vast majority of the people were surprisingly armed and armored. There was little uniformity though, most people wearing patchwork creations of leather and metals in various colors, but there was a small number of men and women wearing full plate armors, their weapons gleaming in the dark. As they walked, many watched with great reverence and fervor at their saviors as they strode among them.

Said saviors were the last remaining remnants of the Silver Hand, the Paladin Order of the Alliance, left in the land. Men and women, humans and dwarves, they walked resolutely throughout the camp, passing on blessings, healing wounds, murmuring encouragement, and warily watching the perimeter of the camp for any sign of the fearsome undead. Many were of Lordaeron, though once and a while one could catch sight of a few dwarven paladins of Ironforge.

The most fortified position in the town was of course, Mardenholde Keep, ancestral home of the Fordring family. Atop its expanded battlements and four towers flew the flags of all the refugees found there, flint-eyed archers and gunmen keeping vigil over the town. Any undead that shambled out of the darkness would find itself cut down by arrow or bullet before it could even be seen by any of the refugees in the town.

Much of the town had been ruined from the various assaults by the undead, only beginning to be rebuilt as more and more disparate fighters, priests, paladins, and citizens streamed in out of the yellow haze that was the Plaguelands. The newest construction was a large mage tower that proudly displayed the purple eye of Dalaran. Some of the greatest protections the town was now afforded came from its residents, the many veterans of Dalaran's desperate fight making use of their arcane might to preserve their newest home.

Striding up to this tower was a muscular man, his greying hair falling down past his shoulders across battle-scarred armor. An absolutely enormous warhammer, covered with dried blood and countless notches, was slung along his back. Though his tabard was faded and had been patched dozens of times, the faint blue and silver fist emblazoned upon it was clearly recognizable. Beyond his armor, beyond his weapon, beyond even his fierce expression, what most noticed about him was the aura of Holy power that surrounded him.

Accompanying him was another man, his hair grey as well. Yet in contrast, he wore a simple set of scale-mail with thin studded leather pauldrons and pants made of the same material. He did not possess a great warhammer, and instead only bore a simple sword and shield, a dark hood covering the majority of his face in shadow, the rest covered by a small bandana. Yet, he was no less prominent than his companion, the Light surrounding him almost palpable, far more so than his larger fellow.

Others trailed behind them in a scattered line; two wiry men wielding staffs that glowed with faint power, one with the powers of the Light, the other with the powers of the arcane. A blue armored paladin with rich red hair, with one hand covered by a thick leather glove while the other remained bare. Finally, behind them all came two others who held dark fires within their eyes.

As they approached, the two purple robed mages guarding the entrance looked to each other and nodded. One stepped through, and returned moments later with a crimson haired man, a genial smile on his face.

"Ah, Saidan Dathrohan…and…his many friends?" he said, strain entering his voice as he took in those who had followed the man.

Saidan snorted.

"What's the issue Rhonin? You told me to bring the most trusted people I could, those that were mightiest in the Light and Magic. So I did," he said, amusement in his voice.

Saidan Dathrohan was the last known living founder of the Silver Hand. Two had fallen into undeath, two had disappeared. Gavinrad the Dire had been raised by the Scourge along with Uther Lightbringer, while Turalyon had disappeared beyond the Dark Portal. Tirion Fordring had not been seen since his exile. As the last of the Silver Hand, he was the greatest hope that all those who had gathered in Hearthglen looked up to as a paragon of the Light and their most powerful defender.

Standing opposite him was the current Grand Magus of Dalaran, Rhonin Redhair, one of the most powerful survivors of the fall of Dalaran, who had brought with him one of the largest surviving contingents from the legendary mage-city.

"Yes. Well, we were sort of assuming that it would be less people than…this," the mage said.

"That's the issue?" Saidan said, a hand falling to his hip.

"That and you haven't introduced any of these people," Rhonin replied.

Saidan nodded, interest flickering in his eyes. He turned and gestured to his gathered companions. As he introduced them, each nodded in turn.

"Ah, my apologies. I have brought with me the mighty High Wizard Arellas Fireleaf for his powers over the arcane. You emphasized that the Light would be greatly needed, and so I gathered Highlord Mograine. I also brought the priests Fairbanks and Isillien, both have greatly impressed me," he said.

Rhonin raised an eyebrow as he very pointedly looked at the two remaining men who had not been named. At his look, Saidan grimaced.

"This one," he said gesturing at the man who had accompanied Isillien, "insisted-" he began before being cut off by said paladin walking to the forefront.

"Where is my daughter, mage? It has been a week since Dalaran fell and I have not seen her since you arrived. Where have you taken Brigitte?" he said harshly.

Rhonin looked at him, nonplussed.

"You must be the elder Abbendis, then?" he said calmly, getting a curt nod in response.

"She volunteered to be one of the guards, Saidan had all the details. She and Taelan Fordring have been helping us greatly since our arrival. There is nothing to worry about whatsoever," he continued.

At the mention of the Fordring scion the remaining unknown man stiffened. Turning rapidly, he made it three steps before the great paw of Saidan fell upon his shoulder and clenched down like a bear trap.

"Not today, friend," he said softly.

The two held an unspoken conversation, desperation coloring the smaller man's movements. Everyone watched in bemusement until Saidan's hands clamped around both shoulders and bodily steered the other man back to the forefront. Rhonin watched curiously.

"And this is…?" he asked.

Saidan merely shook his head.

"Someone more powerful in the ways of the Light than me. I trust him with my life. Is that not enough?" he said, a challenging note evident in his voice.

Rhonin raised both hands in placation.

"No, no it's fine, I suppose. Well, you'd best all come in. You may wish to steel yourselves; this will shock all of you."

With that, they walked through the doorway and down into the depths of the tower. As they walked, they gazed at the pristine walls, the steady corruption throughout the Plaguelands not penetrating into the inner sanctum of the wizards of Dalaran. As they walked, the more sensitive amongst them looked up, feeling the comforting warmth of the Light grow and wrap around them. Saidan inhaled deeply and looked suspiciously downwards, an action mirrored amongst the rest of the paladins and priests.

Eventually they passed beneath the earth, and found themselves in a large stone room, numerous torches cheerfully illuminating what would otherwise been a dark and gloomy place. There were several comfortable beds, though none were currently occupied, Instead, standing shoulder to shoulder near the back of the room were several hooded figures, each clad in dark grey robes.

Standing guard near them were the aforementioned Brigitte Abbendis and Taelan Fordring. Strangely, Brigitte did not appear particularly vigilant, and instead stood at almost casual ease well within range of their charges. Both had pleased expressions on their faces, though the younger Abbendis went beyond such to the point that her face glowed with rapturous happiness.

Upon seeing her father, the young paladin nearly broke her position, choosing instead to simply call out to him.

"Father! I am so glad you are here! The glory of the Light truly is wonderful!" she said brightly.

The elder Abbendis frowned, breathed deeply through his nose, and unsheathed his sword and shield, startling many in the room. He growled and glared at his daughter with condemnation.

"I smell the stench of the undead in this place, daughter. Why have you not slain them?" he said furiously before whirling on Rhonin, a thunderous expression in place.

"Is this why you have brought us here, to be slain by your undead masters?" he snarled.

Saidan's expression hardened, his own warhammer sliding into his hands as he stood between the paladin and the mage whose hands had begun to spark with magical flames.

"Listen to yourself, Abbendis. His 'undead masters'? What idiocy do you speak? I trust the Grand Magus of Dalaran has an explanation for this," he said, pointedly looking at Rhonin.

Rhonin nodded, his still glaring back at the Abbendis who had been joined by Isillien and Doan, their hands glowing with searing Light and arcane might respectively. Before he could speak, the wild-eyed priest spoke.

"Indeed, calm is needed here my friend. Why, it could even be a gift?" he said, dark humor in his voice. Despite his words, threat still emanated from his every movement.

As his companion turned his hard gaze upon him, the priest continued.

"Perhaps we have been brought here to cleanse some mighty undead beast, a Lich or Death Knight, hmm?" he said with a smile.

"Many of the mages of Dalaran joined the Scourge, we all know this, I demand to-," Abbendis began to rant before being interrupted by several voice at once.

"How dare-" Rhonin began.

"Abbendis!" Saidan said, scandalized.

"Wh-" began another voice.

"Stop."

This last word silenced the room, the power and authority inherent in it permeating the air. They all looked, heated as they were, to the back of the room towards the same figures that were being argued over. Both guards had approached the new group, and had left their 'prisoners' relatively free. The tallest among them was who had spoken. Then, before their eyes, the broad-shouldered man began to chuckle.

"I told you Rhonin. You should have just gotten it over with and brought me out in the beginning," he said.

Rhonin shook his head resolutely, magic still burning in his hands as he kept half of his attention on the still seething Abbendis.

"I promised the old man to keep you safe," he said stubbornly.

"We are not children to be coddled boy," the figure responded.

Saidan, and his mysterious companion, both stared at the man as he spoke.

"It can't be…" whispered the masked one. At the sound of his voice, Taelan's head whipped towards the source.

Saidan gripped his warhammer so tightly that the wood creaked as he pushed to the front of the group, approaching to the hooded man who walked forwards at the same exact pace.

"I know that voice. I also know that man is worse than dead. Take. Off. That. Hood," He said, biting off the last few words. A nimbus of Holy Light surrounded him as he spoke.

The man complied immediately.

Large hands reached up and gently pulled down the hood revealing the quietly amused face of Uther Lightbringer, former Silver Hand and Black Heart.

"Hello Saidan," he said to the nearly saucer-like eyes of the paladin.

His eyes rose to meet the similar expression of the masked man as behind him his three companions removed their own hoods revealing a dwarf and two humans; a man and a woman.

"Hello Tirion," he spoke, the younger Fordring letting out a strangled noise immediately afterwards.

The room exploded into pandemonium.

0o0o0o0oo0​

Western Plaguelands, Hearthglen

"Hah….hah….so….finally satisfied?" came a weary but strong voice.

Tirion Fordring marveled at the speaker. Once more, he summoned up the greatest blast of the Light he could manage, praying and sweating and nearly swearing. It built up beneath him until it seemed that he would explode, burning through his veins and across his bones. With a roar of effort, he unleashed it, only to watch as it splashed across and into the body of Uther Lightbringer and his companions.

They did not hiss, or retch, or burn or any of the myriad things that undead did when faced with the awesome might of the Light. Indeed, Uther breathed it in like fresh air, basking in it as if it was sunlight. All had been stripped to their smallclothes, dignity a small price to pay as all those that had been present in this same room ten days ago had performed endless tests to prove just what the now dead Antonidas had set out to prove. Recent wounds that had been scattered across their bodies evaporated as they were healed, not hurt, by the power of the Light.

Tirion opened his mouth to speak when a searing lash of Light erupted and struck across Uther's chest, burning the flesh severely. Following this spikes of arcane energy. Before another strike could erupt, he whirled in anger to face the perpetrator.

"Again," came harsh voice of Abbendis who stared Tirion right back in the eye. Behind him Doan and Isillien readied themselves once more.

Unlike the two founders of the Silver Hand, Abbendis, along with his close compatriot Isillien had been possessed of almost laser-like focus at trying to prove that Uther was truly an agent of the Scourge, of the undead. They had demanded practically barbaric tortures to prove this, and despite the protests of Rhonin and Tirion, Uther had accepted almost immediately.

The Lightbringer seemed almost eager to suffer any indignity, any pain, and any torture, all in order to prove that he had been truly freed from the control of the Scourge. Following along with him were three other death knights, test cases from Antonidas as he had studied the usage of the Crown of Will that was being looked and picked over by every high ranking Dalaran wizard in Hearthglen.

Thane Korth'azz, a dwarf of a minor Khaz Modan holding that had become one of the first non-humans to join the Silver Hand. Lady Blaumeux, one of the few Gilnean's to refuse the call to hide behind the wall. Sir Zeliek, a man who, just like Uther, still possessed the powers of the Light to heal wounds and sear his foes. The incredible faith and fortitude of all four had proven inviolable despite the harsh treatment they had received from their captors.

Beyond them, near the doorway leading into the chamber and the stairs leading out, Brigitte Abbendis and Taelan Fordring stood guard, looking at each other and into the room with every roar of pain. Taelan looking longingly towards the back of his father who summoned up another blast of Holy energies, while Brigitte looked at her own father, a conflicted expression on her face.

Taelan looked to her then.

"Brigitte? You seem troubled, well, more so than usual," he said softly, flinching at another cry of pain from the Lightbringer's companions.

The young woman flicked her eyes to him briefly before returning to look at her father.

"I…spoke. With Uther, I mean. Before…this," she said quietly.

Taelan's eyes widened.

"W-what!? We were ordered not to speak to them! Why?" he asked in shock.

Brigitte shook her head slightly.

"I…I wanted to…kill him? To taunt him at least. I thought that…" she trailed off before shaking her head. "It doesn't matter right now. But…I spoke to him. I demanded to know all the secrets of the Scourge and he…he offered them freely. There was no need to torture him."

Taelan gave a shallow frown and a controlled wince at the harsh yell of Uther which sounded out once more. Yet before he could offer condolences or another smattering of words he was forced to lean back at the sudden piercing stare that Brigitte leveled upon him. An almost feverish light burned in her eyes, enough to bring a slight chill to the young Fordring's spine.

"But we know the truth now! The traitor Arthas may be powerful, but he could not match the greatness of the Light! Uther wields it even now, him and Sir Zeliek are proof that the power of the Light is unmatched even by the Scourge! They…he-Arthas, all of them, they tried to corrupt them but with the might of the Light not even the chains of the Scourge could hold them down!" she whispered fiercely, desperate to keep her voice down as not to disturb the ongoing 'examinations' in the room they still guarded.

"Lady Blaumeux and Thane Korth'azz can no longer reach the Light though…" Taelan pointed out softly.

Brigitte cut her hand through the air.

"Not the point. Lord Uther has proven that the control of the Scourge can be broken. The Light burns strongest in him and Sir Zeliek, but that only shows how powerful they and the Light are! Even if they could not return the Light to those two, they could still shatter the chains! But instead of utilizing their strengths and powers, what do we do?!" she asked as she came what felt like dangerously close to the young man in an acidic voice.

Taelan only stared as he took a single step back from the fervent young woman in front of him. With no response forthcoming Brigitte gave a guttural noise of disgust before turning away and retaking her post on the opposite side of the door from the confused young man.

"Nothing!" the woman hissed to herself. "Uther Lightbringer, free of the Scourge, and what do we do with him? Do we let him lead our troops to the strongholds of the Scourge or use the intelligence gained from being forced to wait at the traitor Menethil's feet? No. My father," she ground out the word, "is too busy focusing on the past to see the present!"

Taelan raised his hands to gain her attention.

"To be fair, if we're wrong in any way-" he began before having to rapidly step back as the young Abbendis appeared to teleport her face close to his own.

"It's. Been. A. Month. A month of interrogation and torture for every waking and sleeping hour of the day! My father and Isillien take a single meal and then come right back down here. They barely even sleep! The Scourge headed south but now that they've accomplished whatever it is they set out to do, they're returning! Any progress we could have made, perhaps to penetrate back west towards the Capital or to reach the coasts…gone forever! We've only just barely reconnected with Tyr's Hand and even that is a challenge."

"Well-"

"I agree, young Brigitte," rumbled Saidan Dathrohan from behind them.

Both guards jumped in the air before scrambling to return to their positions as the paladin gave a short laugh.

"Peace, young ones. I mean no harm," the man spoke before looking towards Brigitte.

Instead of responding both young man and young woman stared resolutely ahead as if they had not just been incredibly lax in their duties. For a moment the paladin looked between them with a hand on his hips before giving a light chuckle.

"There is no taint in Uther, nor those he rescued. Despite your father's paranoia and that of his personal companions, I cannot justify this continued treatment."

Another pained grunt from Uther punctuated his statement and brought a grimace to the elder paladin's face.

"No, no this ends now. It will take time for the people to trust Uther and his freed knights, and for however much distasteful I find the idea of these…'death knights' that poor Korth'azz and Blaumeux have become; I will not hate the individuals," Saidan said with a resolute nod.

The heavy clank of the man's plate armor caused all the individuals deep within the room to look up, but what gave them pause was the growing expression of anger on Saidan's face. Though the holy warhammer slung along his back remained out of his hands, the continued clenching of the paladin's metal encased fists reminded all looking that while Uther Lightbringer had been one of the most gifted with the light, Saidan Dathrohan had been one of the most physically powerful.

The two free 'death knights' remained standing with their backs along the wall. Near them, Sir Zeliek glared defiantly at their interrogators.

"In your quest to verify the truth of our freedom there awaits a noble goal at the end, but your actions and treatment of Lord Uther strains even my patience and forgiveness!" the holy man growled.

When he made to say more, a large hand rose up as Uther stood wearily to face the ones who had spent the last month trying to prove that he remained a servant of the Scourge.

Though I grow weary of this as well, if this is what it takes to satisfy them, then so be it, thought the Lightbringer.

Nothing in the world would ever compare to the horror of being under the control of Arthas, and so he stood once more to face whatever strange arcane or priestly tricks remained to reveal the truth. Eyes brimming with the power of the light found those of Saidan who had forced the attention of the room upon him. For a moment, the red armored man said nothing.

Without a moment's hesitation or a given signal an enormous burst of the light enveloped Uther and his companions, blooming forth from Saidan's hand. As it had the very first time a similar maneuver had been performed a full month ago…all four freed warriors were unharmed. Saidan nodded.

"We're done with this. They have proven themselves fully, and I am satisfied. There shall be no more of the farce I let this become."

"Well I am not satisfied, and I refuse to-" Isillien began before being forced to stop as Saidan loomed above him.

"You. Are. Done. Here," the founding member of the Silver Hand boomed.

For a moment, it almost seemed as if the matter would come to blows…before the moment passed. Saidan watched through slightly narrowed eyes as the three men who had so thoroughly unleashed themselves against Uther for the past month slinked away. Then his gaze turned upon the silent Tirion.

"Why did you say nothing Tirion?" he asked calmly.

The elder Fordring looked down.

"I have no right to say anything. I am not of the Silver Hand. I have no authority here. In fact, I don't even know why I am here," he finally replied to the raised eyebrow of Saidan.

"I would wager," Uther spoke up causing them to look at him, "that it has to do with the fact that in these times…it seems that old prejudices have no place."

Saidan nodded.

"It doesn't matter, what happened before. Forget the trial. The Light could not be stripped from you then, and I don't really care. The Horde left these shores a while ago, we need to focus on the now. We need the powers of the Light, and if that means forgetting that you gave refuge to an orc, then to hell with it I'll forget that you gave refuge to an orc!" the man exclaimed.

It was a heady statement.

"I…regret, the actions undertaken that day," Uther spoke up, standing once more. Behind him the other former paladins began to redress.

"Honor is something to be treasured in the darkness that the Scourge have brought upon us. If anything, I should no longer bear the powers I thought to strip from you at the conclusion of the trial," the Lightbringer said, to the widened eyes of Tirion.

Saidan looked between the two and nodded.

"He is not wrong. The two of you have some…exceptional circumstances indeed. Uther tore the powers of the Light from you, Tirion, yet the folly of mortal men could not pull the Light from you. Arthas drowned you in darkness Uther, and yet the power of the undead could not strip the Light from you. Nor you, Sir Zeliek," the man said with a look towards the only other wielder of the Light in the room.

Sir Zeliek merely lowered his head.

"Faith…is all that saved me, my Lords," the man murmured.

Human, dwarf, man, woman, former and current paladins all bowed their heads in respect.

"Faith indeed," Uther murmured before clearing his throat and causing Saidan to look up.

"Yes, Uther?" the man asked curiously.

The Lightbringer coughed once, before nodding.

"Now that we have been…hmm. Cleared…would you be willing to meet with the others?" he said calmly.

Saidan's eyes narrowed.

"What…'others'," he said flatly.

Uther looked at his friend a lifetime ago straight in the eye.

"The other death knights that Antonidas freed."

 

[torroar]

The Order of the Black Heart: Part Fourteen

Dark Sun and Bright Moon

A Warcraft III AU​

New Silvermoon (Refugee Camps)

​

"Kael, please! Let us-"

"No! We are done! I am done! This is your fault, you and the rest of humanity's!"

"What are you-?"

"Your precious love has destroyed my home, Jaina, destroyed my people!"

"Kael, how could you-"

"I see now how correct my father was to distance our people from the Alliance, from humanity. Look at what has been wrought! Dalaran can burn for all I care!"

"Kael!"

A vicious rip of his hand, a portal opening to a blackened wasteland that made his stomach churn, darkness in the distance where once a mighty city should have stood. He practically ran through, ignoring the cry of Ja- the human sorceress as the portal closed behind him. The dead earth cracked and crumbled around his greaves as he walked, vision blurring as he stared at what had become of…everything.

Ash.

Death.

These and the non-existent bones of his people were all that had been waiting for him, not even ghosts left behind by the devastation. Yet still he could hear them.

"Why did you abandon us?" screech the voices.

"Betrayer!"

"Why did you not come?"

The voices swirled around him, shrieking at him even as he fell to his knees, gloves scrunched tight over ash-blasted ears.

"Too busy trying to lay with the pathetic humans, son? Too busy to help your people in their hour of need?"

"No, no father I swear to you I-

"Failed? Yes, yes you did. My body was broken upon the field, but at least I fought!"

"I would have fought, I, I still can!"

But no response came. The voices wailed in his ears, but even they quieted as he walked ever closer towards the end.

He knew this part.

Slowly, trawling through the dunes of ash, he followed the earth as it tilted down.

No. No not again!

He came to the grey sea, and looked down. The swirling pool of ash gently moved beneath his gaze.

Something moved beneath the surface.

No!

Closer, he walked.

NO!

His people rose from the pool. Rotting, eyeless, they grasped and wailed blindly. Men, women, children, an army made from the dead. Leading them was Arthas, laughing all the while as he rode atop an abomination stitched together from everyone he'd ever known. Belo'vir, Vandellor, Liadrin, all the magisters…and its head was that of his father, one eyebrow raised imperiously even as it wobbled closer.

"Come to fight, son? Come to serve your people? Good, come and serve in death!" the late Sunstrider laughed.

Then his mouth opened and a swarm of flies and maggots-

"AH!" Kael'thas Sunstrider screamed as he tore off the ragged sheets from his cot, an unconscious burst of mana causing a flash of flame that almost immediately guttered out.

The last of the Sunstrider bloodline hauled himself up from the scratchy wool and straw that served as his bed before stumbling and falling to his knees. His arms clutched his stomach even as a wave of bile forced its way from his throat and splashed onto the dirt. The elf continued to retch until his stomach had fully emptied all its contents.

"Lord Kael'thas? Are you unwell?" came a voice from behind him.

Kael raised a hand for silence as he continued to kneel, though he eventually stood after a few moments. He turned to face what he assumed to be a spell breaker, though the only thing that revealed the woman's chosen profession was the lightly held double-bladed sword. There was none of the customary armor or shields, and the normal shades of crimson had been replaced with the green and browns of the Farstriders. Furthermore, the bright red eye mask was not present, a dark grey hood and facial wrap covering all but her dark eyes.

"I-I'm fine. Just…nightmares," he replied weakly.

The woman cocked her hip, placing a hand on it.

"You don't look fine," she said with a deadpan.

It was true. His once luxurious blonde locks had grown matted and tangled, fair skin now stretched gaunt. Large dark bags of purple hung under his eyes, and the rest of him was far thinner than he had looked since his childhood. Even the tips of his ears drooped ever so slightly. The very real draining effect that surrounded the former Sunwell clawed away the lifeforce of almost all who approached it. Coming as close as he did had left him in a coma for weeks. It was only short time ago that he awoke at all.

He waved her off.

"I will be," he replied with a steadier voice that hardened, "I must be."

The spell breaker tilted her head before shrugging.

"If you say so. Anyway, I came to get you for a reason," she said.

Kael perked up as he looked at her.

"Is it-," he said before being cut off with a slash of her hand.

"Yes, the Lady will speak with you. It has been difficult to find a moment in the meantime of organizing, well, everything, and she apologizes for her inability to speak with you since you woke up," she said flatly, even the communicated apology was said near emotionlessly.

Kael simply nodded, but inwardly he felt deeply uncomfortable as he followed the woman down the path.

He had woken but a week ago, but despite his current weakness and apparent near death for venturing close to…whatever it was that had taken the Sunwell's place, he had still managed to walk amongst his people.

What he found had left him both pleased and disturbed.

Over a fourth of all his people had been saved by Windrunner's gambit, far more than would have lived if they had not fled with her. For that, his gratitude was more than enough to crush the small twinge of irrational pride that had risen within him at the thought of turning coward against the Scourge that had ravaged and finally destroyed their home.

But there was a constant niggling voice in the back of his head whenever he thought of who had been saved. Who had been worthy to flee on the fleet of the High Elves?

Not the majority of the Magisters Council, the most powerful spell casters the High Elves had possessed.

Not the Noble Court, whose members had been of the richest, most powerful, oldest bloodlines stretching back to before they had crossed the seas.

Not…not his father, the King of the High Elves, who had led his people in an age of unrivaled prosperity.

Of course he understood some of it, from what he had learned from the common folk he had heard that his father had fallen against Arthas himself in combat before the city itself fell. A large amount of the Magisters Council had accompanied him. But the nobles, most of whom were dead now, why had they not left on the ships? Wouldn't they have forced their way in, even if Sylvanas had not wished their presence? Their influence and wealth alone should have…

Kael shook his head as they picked their way through the dirt path.

That way lay dark thoughts, thoughts he refused to entertain. Unfortunately there were others that pushed in to fill his mind, pertaining to the 'Savior' of elves.

One part of that concern was because the word savior had been spoken with specific reverence, and furthermore the fact that Sylvanas was continually referred to in the same manner that the spell breaker had used.

'The Lady'.

He had been told of how his father had foolishly removed her from the position of Ranger-General. At first he had protested on the late kings behalf, but after a short and heated speech by the priest he had spoken to he had retracted his statements. Later he had been informed of how Lor'themar had been her replacement, and even now had retained his position.

So what position of authority did she hold now? None officially.

But that doesn't seem to matter, does it? He mused as they walked and finally crested the rise to see the current home of all his people.

Windrunner Village had been a goodly sized town before, but now it was strained past bursting. A massive tent city sprawled out from the town, stretching across the newly named Ghostlands. The name still tingled on his lips when Kael spoke them, but it was accurate. If you stayed quiet, people said you could still hear the whispers of the dying on the wind.

Kael shivered. They walked down and across the village, through the tent city, and as they did Kael could not help himself as his eyes found themselves drawn to the encroaching woods surrounding the settlement.

The dark Ghostlands were far more welcoming than the alternative of what had become of everything to the south, or what had become of the Eversong Woods to the north. Or rather, the Eversong Wasteland to hear it told properly. Here there were still some animals to hunt for food, and all things considered the Scourge didn't seem to care about infecting the sea with the plague.

The fleet haphazardly hung along the coast like a protective shield, lacking the docks required for their numbers. Of all the things to survive their home, the proud fleet of Quel'Thalas remained almost entirely unharmed. It had been on one of those ships that he had in fact awakened on before being escorted to his partially private home on the hill.

In the distance stood Windrunner Spire, a long tendril of the tent city grew from the village up to the ancestral home of the Windrunner dynasty. As they went along, Kael felt the eyes of his people on his back.

It was not a welcoming feeling.

They were wary of him, of his absence in their most dire hour. More than that, they were cold. Not maliciously, or against him specifically, but in general manner. There was a grim atmosphere to all they did, whether it was fighting Scourge stragglers or merely going about their day as he passed. Kael didn't think that he'd seen a smile from any of his people since he'd arrived, even amongst the children.

Kael's morose thoughts fell away as a set of elves, dressed similarly to his escort, appeared. One whispered into his guide's ear, only to lean back upon her nodding.

"I'm sorry, I must leave you now Prince Kael'thas. The path continues on ahead," she said as she turned to him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Another band of mindless undead, but they've got an abomination with them," she replied even as she began to hurry away.

"Undead-wait! I can help, let me-," Kael began.

"No need!" the woman said even as she progressed into a full sprint, followed closely by the other elves.

So it was that the Prince of Silvermoon found himself standing alone, the Spire standing tall before him at the top of the hill. It was an entirely novel experience. For the past few centuries of his reasonably long life, albeit not too old given normal elven lifespans, he had spent much of his time either in the Sunstrider Spire or in Dalaran. Surrounded by the constant hum of magic, of life and spells being used casually for everything. Furthermore, he often had guards. More than a dozen, most of the time, and when he was bereft of them he had been at the least surrounded by his peers and friends both human and elf.

Dark wisps of rage still curled around his heart on thoughts of the former, though they drifted away as he approached the Windrunner Spire proper. Below, he could see the rapid and frenzied construction of docks for the fleet of Quel'Thalas, hundreds or perhaps even thousands of elves working furiously. Ships too damaged to continue function had been cannibalized, while woodsmen had gone out into the dangerous Ghostlands to fell tremendous amounts of timber from the northern Ghostlands, where not even Scourge tread in large numbers. It was, to be sure, an impressive display of organization, but the problem he found with it was one that rankled at his royal hackles. It was the blue and silver colors that they wore.

Oh, it was only in headbands, or small cloths wrapped around arms, but many now proudly wore the Windrunner tabard. It was a phenomenon that stretched beyond the civilians. He had spotted no less than twelve rangers and spell breakers wearing the same as they patrolled through the camps on his way here. It wasn't…it wasn't right. He was here. In his heart, he knew he was not the King, and that such a thing would always remain the title of his father. He would forever be but the Prince of Silvermoon. That was what he had said to himself when he had first heard and processed the death of his father. But such convictions had begun grinding away at him when he saw all of…of this.

"Prince Kael'thas," a voice broke his train of thought, and made him look up.

He could not help but stare slightly at the guards assembled before him. He recognized none of them, which was to say he couldn't recognize them. Their faces were completely concealed, every part of their flesh covered in the mail and armor of what looked like modified Royal Guard attire. His hackles rose again at the sight of the Windrunner sigil emblazoned on their chest plates. The one who had spoken stepped forward, and inclined his head. Over two thousand years of royal upbringing helpfully pointed out in the back of his head that it was a tad too shallow than he, as Prince, deserved.

"You are awaited by the Lady. I am to escort you."

The not-quite-a-Royal-Guard then turned about and began marching up one of the winding staircases of the Spire, without so much as a 'please follow me' to Kael. A quiet fury trickled down the Princes spine as he nonetheless followed. The rest of the blue and silver armored guards clanked slightly as they reset their ranks, facing outward with blades held at the ready. The climb proceeded entirely in silence, neither elf feeling particularly conversational at the moment. Instead, Kael took the chance to once again look down on his people, and at the sprawling city. Because from this high up, yes, that was simply what it was. But it none of the curving and artistic contours of Silvermoon, none of the hallowed archways and glorious winding streets.

No. It was all so…stark. Military. The logical conclusion of a military base continually growing outward with ever increasing lines and quadrants and walls of defense. Civilian and military purpose blended together into a jerky yet sturdy mixture. The residences looked like barracks. The markets like armories. Perhaps it would be better to say that it was the other way around. Walls of wood and piled stone were still being shaped, but it had none of the grand sweeping design of his home. It was all utility and defensibility, built for one purpose and one purpose only: combat and war.

It horrified him. Did no one see what was happening, what had become of his people? All the infinite facets of the High Elves were being carved and ground into a single point, like an arrowhead from a block of stone. And no one seemed to care except him.

"We are here, Prince Kael'thas. I shall announce you."

The guard strode through doors of stone draped in banners of blue and silver, only to return a few seconds later.

"You may enter," and here the guard bowed a more appropriate distance and depth.

Darkness was the first thing to enter his mind when he stepped within, though it only took a moment for is eyes to adjust. No, instead it was just very…very dim. Another step forward, and then he felt it. A pull he had only ever felt once before when he had nearly thrown his life away at the broken and irrevocably destroyed Sunwell. The draining, though it was infinitely lesser than before. A half-hearted tug with all the strength of a babe rather than the godlike ripping he'd experienced before. Still, it was enough, and he brought his magic to him, and readied for…something. He didn't quite know what.

"Ah, so you feel it," a sepulchral voice said dully from farther in, "I had hoped otherwise…but you journeyed near the epicenter. Well, at the least I think you are strong enough to resist it, yes?"

It was true, actually. Though it took more than a minor application of his will, the hungry pulling at his very being slipped off of him, though it did not disappear entirely, and its effects left his body. But the hairs on the back of his neck refused to go back down.

"Sylvanas? What…happened to…?" he stopped speaking, for at that moment he finally saw the now-revered Lady Windrunner as she pushed past the dark blue drapes of her inner rooms to greet him in the foyer. "By the sun…"

"No," the grey…the ash skinned thing said back to him, hair turned a similar color if only slightly lighter, "I don't think the sun had much to do with it at all."

Twin pits of pure void and darkness seemed to draw even the faint light around them into themselves, into oblivion. Almost invisible golden sclera glinted at their centers, flashing with what might have been amusement.

"No," Sylvanas Windrunner said again, her voice echoing oddly like from the bottom of a recently unearthed grave, "Not the sun."

Her head tilted slightly, and lowered slightly.

"Greetings Prince Kael'thas, welcome to my home."

"What are you?" his voice betrayed the disgust he felt looking at her.

Sylvanas shrugged.

"I am what becomes of one when at ground zero to a Sunwell as it undergoes its own destruction."

"Are you-,"

"Undead? No. I still breathe. I still require food and drink…albeit far less than ever before. I still…bleed."

Her voice caught oddly on the last word.

"I don't understand."

"I don't really understand it myself, not really," she said truthfully.

0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0​

It was the worse pain she had ever felt. It was the worst pain the world could create and then some. For only a brief moment she had thought to escape the repercussions of what had been done to the Sunwell, but it was not to be. For denying the undead and their masters their prize she had to suffer some sort of reprisal. Only, her thoughts had been of some demons or undead finding her afterward, broken, and alone, and tearing her to scraps of broken bone and meat. Instead, it was the Sunwell itself that decided to punish her for slaying it.

The fabric of reality had not just bent when the grandest and most powerful font of Arcane power in the Eastern Kingdoms had been obliterated. It had been ripped. It had been broken.

She, as it turned out, just barely happened to occupy that bare sliver of distance between complete and instant extinction as it was at the very Sunwell itself and the island around it and the inexorable vacuum of destruction that stretched out not just into Silvermoon but beyond into the Eversong Woods. Or perhaps she just had the will to survive. Or it was chance, or any other number of things. She couldn't know. What she did know was what she felt.

A burst of white hot pain, of the yawning chasm of void suffusing her very being. It felt like she had been, was being, was going to be, simply pulled and savaged into a trillion motes of dust. Excruciating pain marked astral highways of pain throughout the cosmos of her tortured body, mind, and soul. Everything hurt, everything died, lived, and died again as stars erupted and collapsed and erupted again. Her mind shattered again and again and again, she knew it did. She went insane and went around and around again in an endless cycle. It was one thing, to say and do what she had formulated as a desperate last gambit. It was another to experience it.

Turning the Sunwell against itself to destroy it and everything around it utterly had been a vengeful masterstroke of sabotage and hate against the Scourge and their demonic masters. Only the Sunwell could destroy the Sunwell. Even if the Scourge and the Burning Legion had dipped their bodies and artifacts or whatever else they had planned, it could only have tainted the Sunwell, turned it to their own purposes. No, they could not have destroyed it. But neither would the High Elves allow them to possess it for their own purposes. By the Sun it hurt though, to go through with it. But the pain was nothing, nothing, compared to what she experienced there.

The oceans swirled and crashed, the air screamed, the earth buckled apart, fires cascaded into being and disappeared just as quickly. No, the Sunwell had not enjoyed its death, and it made sure that everything around it suffered in equal measure. The world had merely responded. In between them, part of them, separate from them, buffeted on all sides by such forces, lay her living corpse as it was tossed back and forth. After a time, she came back to herself. She had not wanted to, but something made it happen. Some unconscious will dragged her back from the endless void and left her there, washed up on the beaches of Quel'Thalas, alone. The silence in the world was omni-present, completely and totally.

Awareness brought with it pain, but pain brought only more awareness. Every movement was torture, but nonetheless she dragged herself upward. Her bow, her daggers, everything but a few scraps of cloth was gone. Either to the depths of the ocean or…whatever it was had been created when the Sunwell was turned inward. Likely simply destroyed utterly. She had limped her way about, looking…she didn't know what. But then, then she discovered it. An undead Abomination, barely alive, only its ridiculous bulk keeping it from falling into death once more.

All at once, the yawning ache inside of her grew stronger, and before she knew what she was doing, she was draining the dark magic powering the being into herself. The pain eased, if only slightly, and the abomination simply ceased to be. She did not know how she did this, but it was not the last time. All along the coast were Scourge too broken to move but not broken enough to be fully dead once more. She put an end to it, and each time filled herself. For a time, at least. The hunger always returned, but she grew practiced with it. The hunger dulled, and she gained control. Again, she didn't know how long she did this.

But she learned from the High Elven ship which found her that it had been days since the destruction of the Sunwell. At the same time, she learned of what they had begun to call her, to regard her as. The one who saved the High Elves from the foolishness of the Sunstriders, of the nobility and the proud magisters. Over one knee she had broken the pride of the High Elves, and on the other, she had propped them up with a zealous fervor to survive and continue on. It had not been what she had wanted, but it was better than her people all being dead.

0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0
​

The sun had gone down by the time she finished her tale to the increasingly bewildered Prince. Even now his mind struggled to come up with a way to identify what the Lady Windrunner had become. She was at the least outwardly an elf, if changed to a startling and disquieting extent. She still spoke their language, she still smiled and sighed, shrugged and acted as one of the living would. But there was always that aura of other about her that he simply could not ignore. She acknowledged the strange swerve of public attention on her, and away from the Sunstriders, but when he brought up the possibility of turning the High Elves back to the Sunstrider way, he was surprised when she refused him. Or rather, why she did.

"Did you not think I have tried to do exactly that? The moment my Striders found you, I have made efforts to do so. But the people…they view me as some kind of mythical savior, for some reason. I may be the sole survivor of the Sunwell's destruction, but they see my appearance and bow and scrape," she shrugged helplessly.

"But surely there must be something we can do," Kael hissed.

"I don't know what to tell you Prince. As it is, the Quel'dorei have foisted the burdens of leadership upon me and Lor'themar. If you wish to join us-,"

"Join you?" he stood, a sneer making its way onto his face. "You've just let my people rant and spit on my name. On my fathers name, and after but a short time after my return you just…give up?"

Sylvanas narrowed her obsidian colored eyes, though she did not stand herself.

"I have been busy, oh distant Prince. Some of us did not have the luxury of waiting in Dalaran while Quel'Thalas burned!"

"How dare you!"

"How dare I, how dare I?!"

Now she did stand.

"How dare I preserve over a fourth of our people when the Sunstriders and Magister Council would have dragged us all to death for pride in Silvermoon's wards and walls? How dare I organize, save, guide, protect, fight for, nearly die for time and again, for the people while the nobles dithered about in Sunstrider Spire?!" she growled, and the strange echo behind her words grew stronger, as did the insistent and deadly pull on his very being.

"You think I wanted this, any of this? The people made their choice, and even with the fact that I do not sleep, barely require food or drink, I am run ragged with protecting the people and keeping them safe, building a new settlement for them all. I offer you the chance to help lead your people and you spurn me?"

"You would deny me my rightful role as Prince!"

"Don't you mean King," Sylvanas drawled.

"No. My father was King, and I am Prince. Out of respect for my father I have determined to remain Prince forevermore, that no King shall be named of the Sunstrider line until the vengeance of our people is complete," and it was only after saying such did he realize that he had told no one of that until now. And yet the people had still only called him Prince.

"I would have you take on a role of leadership, but I can guarantee you Kael'thas that if you think to simply announce yourself that the people will fall in line you are wrong. I take no pleasure in that, but it is the truth," she raised her arms as if in surrender. "But if you don't want to help us help the quel'dorei, you can go."

Stone possessed more emotion than was on Kael's face.

"You would throw me out. Me. Your Prince."

Sylvanas gave a ghost of a chuckle.

"Haven't you heard, Kael? The only noble bloodlines left are the Windrunner and Sunstrider. And there are quite a few of us left than you."

"I would have your help in preserving what is left of us. But I do not require it," her teeth clacked shut on the last word.

Kael was silent a moment more before turning away towards the door. Neither said anything, even as the implications and repercussions of this meeting were clearly running through their minds. Kael stopped at the door, and turned slightly to look at her, swathed in the shadows of her residence.

"What am I to call you Sylvanas. The Lady? Ranger-Lord, Ranger-General? Or perhaps Queen Windrunner?"

"Call me what you like, Prince Kael'thas. I swore an oath to the quel'dorei, and I am to serve them as I ever have."

"This is not over."

"No…no it is not."

0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0
​

Moonglade​

​

The horn called out, and nature responded. It boomed across the land, resonated in every leaf and every rock. For a single instant, all was still, before those who slumbered awoke. The Emerald Dream was pulled from their eyes and bodies, and sleep ended while energy once more began to thrum through their bodies. There was a difference between the energies of the Dream and the breath of life in their bodies. Still, it was…unusual. Unexpected.

Unscheduled.

Nonetheless, rock and tree parted before them, and with jaw cracking yawns the inhabitants of the Barrow Dens began to stretch and crack fingers. Joints popped as they began to walk forward, through the tunnels, and out into the light once more. One, the greatest of their number, was granted a special place of rest all his own, and so he was not accompanied by cheerful if wary peers as so many others were across the land. He was alone, and yet was not quite so bleary that his antlers would scrape across the ceiling as he tromped forwards. The sight that greeted him was glorious, however, more than enough to make up for being so rudely pulled from the dream.

"Tyrande! My love!" Malfurion Stormrage called out to his one true love, who despite the tightness of her features smiled all the same.

They met in a loving embrace, and her lips crossed his own for the first time in a thousand years. For a wondrous moment there was naught but Tyrande, but the moment could not last. She withdrew first from him, and her features settled into one he knew unfortunately well. It was the same sort of face she had worn so, so long ago…when the Legion had walked the world. It should not have been, and yet…

"Why have you awoken me, Tyrande. Why has the Horn been sounded?"

"The Legion has returned, my student," a booming voice reached him.

Malfurion turned, and immediately bowed his head.

"Cenarius…"

The son of Malorne stood proud, holding his own named horn lightly in one hand.

"It cannot be true, the Legion, returned?" Malfurion murmured, horror in his voice. Yet even as he said it, he knew it had to be true. Why else would Cenarius awaken them?

"Indeed. Even now, their servants stalk into Ashenvale…though they are hunted."

At this, Tyrande whirled, surprise evident in her features.

"What? When? My Sentinels have said nothing of this!"

Cenarius studied her, then turned his gaze on a nearby raven which hopped from branch to branch nearby.

"I have prevented your Sentinels from finding them, if only to see the truth of a certain matter. Should their pursuers prove false, I shall destroy them all myself. As it is, know this. The rest of the druids must awaken, and the Sentinels made ready for war once again."

Both of the night elves nodded fiercely. If Cenarius said it was so…then it was so.

"Malfurion, I grant you my horn. Go, rouse those of your brethren who did not hear the first call. Tyrande, I leave the Sentinels to your own discretion. But," he said as both began to move, "Know this. The…greenskins and pinkskins. These beings which call themselves orcs and humans, are not to be touched."

"Cenarius?"

"For now, Tyrande. But remain ready."

The demigod watched them go, and only after they were a sufficient distance away did he raise his barriers once more. Not even Malfurion, greatest of the druids, would be able to pierce such blocks. He…and his guest, were alone. The raven flew to the ground, and in a quiet wash of magic, arcane magic which made Cenarius's lip curl, the last man to be called Guardian stood fully if slightly stooped on his staff.

"I thank you, noble Cenarius, for your mercy."

"Hmmph. Even the night elves faced worshippers and servants of the demons in their own ranks. The fact that the one you speak of feels so hatefully of his kind which would do the same as Azshara grants you some credit. The taint of demons is only recently cleansed from him, and so know this," Cenarius loomed, "Should this 'Grommash' do anything less than utterly destroy his demon worshipping brethren, I shall wipe these 'orcs' from Kalimdor down to the last."

"I understand," Medivh nodded. And he did. They could not afford another demonically empowered Horde, not now. "I shall take my leave then."

Cenarius watched the little raven fly away to its own machinations, and turned towards his own. The forest blurred around him as he shifted his very presence across the land of the night elves to where the one who would decide his people's fate on the continent camped, unaware of the being who watched him for any other sign of treachery.

0o0o0o0o0o0oo0o0o0
​

Ashenvale Forest

In the small clearing, Grom ripped another bite out of the plainstrider jerky he and his companion had made before entering the forest in pursuit of one of the Burning Blade's leaders. Metalfist had run hard, and had run fast. Apparently he had been in charge of the raiders aligned with the Legion. Still, there was no chance he would escape from the former Warsong Chieftain, even without Rexxar's tracking abilities. They tromped and crashed about in this virgin land, uncaring of what they destroyed, exactly like the Horde of old they so desired to recreate.

Grom would not stand for it. First Metalfist, then the others. If he could, he would not grant them warriors deaths, but it was all he knew how to deal these days. It would have to suffice.

"Grom," Rexxar nodded to him as he walked into the camp, accompanied by not just the bear Misha but a particularly large boar that the beastmaster had picked up from somewhere. "We are being watched."

"I know," Grom said easily as he sharpened Gorehowl. "The masters of this forest are none too happy with Metalfist…and us."

"The Night Elves are a reclusive people, but strong. They do not enjoy intruders," Rexxar responded. "In all my years in this land since the end of the Second War I have only encountered them thrice. All three times was because I had intruded on their territory and was turned about and told to leave."

"So why haven't they done it here and now?" Grom asked, looking up from his axe for a moment.

Rexxar shrugged.

"I don't know. Rest assured, I have the scars on this old hide to prove that they are no spindly guardians of Quel'Thalas."

"Hmmph. If these Night Elves think they can stop me from fulfilling my duty, they are welcome to try."

"They have a mighty god spirit you know."

"I recall, Rexxar. This…Cenarius, you called him."

"Aye."

"I don't think he would be able to stop me either."

They lapsed into silence after that, the only sounds being the grinding of the whetstone. Only the sharpest of weapons for the Burning Legion and their worshippers, Grom thought as he hummed an old war song to himself. It was a song about an orc who had only died after he'd slain every single one of his enemies in life despite the most mortal of wounds. He felt it appropriate.

 

[torroar]

The Order of the Black Heart: Part Fifteen
Bones and Blood
A Warcraft III AU​

Central Wetlands

The Necropolis thrummed with power as it lazily floated above the sprawling base beneath it. Far below, a mixture of Scourge and Legion architecture sat together, though it was becoming more and more apparent that the Legion was the dominant force amongst the two. The strange floating glyphs and machines of demonic design steadily pulsed as demons were summoned armed and ready to be thrown against the weakening forces of the Alliance in the southern fourth of the Wetlands. All kinds of demons had been summoned and assembled, including even some lesser Pit Lords who stomped back and forth, their bellows audible even from the observation deck of the necropolis. But they were of no concern.

Frostmourne's tip did not quite penetrate the rock floor, even as its monstrous wielder leaned ever so slightly on it. Hands covered in thick metal laid atop the pommel, while blue flames gazed from within a mostly concealing helmet. The only other inhabitant of the necropolis at that very moment in time was a single member of the Cult of the Damned and a surprisingly dry and clean zombie holding various papers on its person.

"Report," commanded the first among all of the Lich King's servants.

The cultist bowed deeply before grabbing the thick sheaf of paper from the waiting servitor's unmoving hands. The man had been a clerk in life, and now he served a similar purpose in undeath. Pausing momentarily to cough and clear his throat, the black cloaked and hooded man straightened his back and began peering down at the scrawling text.

"Ahem, yes, my King. Unearthing of tertiary grave sites in Lordaeron is nearing completion, while our servants have just begun working on the secondary sites marked out in the Alterac Mountains. A small bounty of orcish corpses were discovered in Alterac Valley-,"

"Another clan?" the death knight interrupted.

"Ah, no my lord. Sigils and burial talismans indicate the Frostwolf Clan's presence…but they must have left with the rest of the Horde several months ago."

"….continue."

The cultist cleared his throat again.

"Yes, well, Dalaran is now well and truly exhumed, though grave sites are still being discovered around Hillsbrad. Southshore, for instance, has provided several generations of bodies for usage. Stromgarde is providing numerous servants as well, and the martial spirit suffusing that Kingdom's people is now being put to use for the Scourge. Ah," the cultist rechecked the page, "it seems that the Scourge shall get even more usage out of the Amani than we thought before."

At that, the death knight finally turned his head slightly.

"The vast majority of the Amani died in the destruction of Quel'Thalas."

"Ah, yes, my King, but they left behind many ancient settlements in the Hinterlands. Besides the many Wildhammer bodies for usage left to us by Lord Azgalor, we have unearthed numerous troll graves in the area. Not enough to fully replenish what was lost in Quel'Thalas, but the latter should hardly matter at this point. With the demons doing so much of the fighting, we have been able to re-raise our fallen across the vast majority of our past battlefields. The Scourge is stronger than ever," the cultist simpered.

King Arthas did not actually need to breathe anymore, so the fact that he took the extra care to let loose an audible grunt caused the cultist to shy away slightly.

"King Arthas?"

"An ever stronger dog," the King sneered. "This is not what the Scourge were meant to be. I tire of this endless babbling, Jason."

"You know my name…?"

A gimlet eye speared the cultist practically through the heart.

"Should a King not know his subjects?" Arthas asked archly. Then his expression, what parts of his face could create one, sneered. "No, this is not what the Scourge are meant to do, to be. We are more than this. I am aware of how our numbers grow, yes, we are exhuming every corpse in every Kingdom we have conquered, our numbers grow larger than ever, our Liches and my Black Hearts increase in number and strength, but it is wasted here."

"I don't understand."

"You are not required to understand, clerk, only to obey."

Far, far in the distance, the infuriating ships of Kul Tiras once more unleashed a barrage which tore apart the latest offensive. At least it was only demons being pulped and ripped apart by cannonballs and gunfire before they could even reach the defensive lines of the Alliance. There were always more demons to come spitting out of the Twisting Nether.

"…yes my King."

"As to my orders…leave. I have business to attend to."

The cultist left, as did the zombie, leaving Arthas alone at last. Frostmourne did then slam into the floor, and from the cracks and crevices left in it by a solid foot of the runeblade's passage came a creeping wave of ice. As cold as the heart of Icecrown itself came the creeping mass of dark magic and frost, surrounding and covering not just the observation deck of the Necropolis but in fact the entire structure in its entirety. Dark green glyphs, good strong Scourge glyphs of power activated, creating a shimmering curtain of necromantic energies to wash over the whole floating building. Power thrummed throughout the whole structure, as the power of the Lich King itself were channeled into that one place. Not for attack, or destruction…but for defense. Concealment.

Privacy.

Arthas nodded once it was done and began to walk towards the central chamber, from which all had been barred save for himself and Kel'Thuzad. The stone doors ground in their sockets to allow the King to enter to be greeted to a macabre scene to horrify any of the living with waking nightmares for the rest of their lives. The lich barely acknowledged his presence besides a half-hearted 'My King' and at any other time such an insult would require a nightmarishly thorough execution, but not now. After all, the incredible energies that danced between the palms of the floating skeleton could ruin everything if the utmost concentration was not used.

Hundreds of chunks of meat lay about the room, skeletons both whole and incomplete in various stages in several states. From hooks on the ceiling were multiple corpses, hung limply, their lives long gone, though their powerful green blood still dripped to the floor from some. It had taken them over a dozen vivisections simply to get to this point, but now, finally, here they were. Arthas removed his helmet and placed it at the foot of the door, and grasped Frostmourne with both hands, focusing and building up the power within himself. At the center of a large stone slab, heavily muscled limbs splayed over the edges, the look of shock on the thing from its sudden death still evident despite the inhumanity of its face.

The Doom Guard had never seen it coming.

Green light filled the room from a dozen magical orbs, and where their light struck, meat moved. Bones twitched. Skeletons shifted. Blood ceased to fall, and remained within the body, coagulating and rotting into something far more disgusting than what it had been before. But it was not enough. Something intrinsic about the Doom Guard, the only 'whole' demon in the room, would not allow the powers of the greatest Lich of the Scourge to affect it. Pieces, chunks, but never a whole body.

It was a state of affairs that could not be allowed to continue.

"We are no dogs…" Arthas sneered beneath his breath. "We are masters. All who would die shall serve the Scourge. Even," he raised Frostmourne high, "demons!"

With that, eldritch blue light exploded forth from the runeblade, and joined with the dark green ribbons of power flowing from Kel'Thuzad.

The one bottleneck between Scourge and Legion was the utter inability of the Scourge to raise demon corpses. Something about the interaction between necromancy and fel energies had thus kept the Scourge from being able to truly buck their leash. It rankled the King of Lordaeron. It irritated the Majordomo of the King of Lordaeron. It infuriated the Lich King. So all three forced their powers to the fore in the greatest single concentration necromancy on Azeroth had ever had, all only possible due to the unyielding hatred of Azgalor keeping him fully focused on the Alliance to the south and the current disappearance of the Dreadlords.

They strained, they grunted – those that had lungs – and they strained again. Pathways of magic, avenues of animation, invasions of power into the very fabric of the demon, all this and more they tried. They did not require sleep, and so did not need to pause in their efforts. Far in the distance, in Lordaeron, minor legions of skeletons simply ceased to move, and clattered to the earth to the utter surprise of the forest trolls who had not known how to pass by to regroup with their warlord. In the Ghostlands, various groups of wandering Scourge were left sluggish and drained, transformed into targets for opportunistic Farstriders. To the living of Northrend, the skies above the Icecrown Glacier were lit up in a terrifying display of lights and power.

The bits and pieces of dead demons could be used to craft basic skeleton warriors, the more magically inclined could create skeleton mages, while any meat could usually be used for abomination construction, but it wasn't enough. When the rare times came that the full powers of the Scourge could be channeled into raising one of the fel beasts, it was only ever temporary. The whole of the being needed to be under the control of the Lich King, their body and soul, not just the former. Furious might channeled ever more power, the Lich King already more than nourished from its servants rebuilding across the northern Eastern Kingdoms.

Arthas nearly buckled from the exertion, but the knowledge needed to be gained. He did not know just how long they worked, for time barely seemed to pass at all, but eventually…finally…the Doom Guard's corpse began to twitch as a whole…

====================================​

Terenas Harbor, Tirisfal Glades

Captain Falric gazed out into the open sea, as motionless as the undead creature he was. The first death knight ever raised by King Arthas, shortly followed into service by his best friend in life Captain Marwyn, was also one of the most powerful. Perhaps, perhaps rivaled by the traitor Uther. But Uther and his traitorous death knights were of no concern, hiding in the wilderness as they were. The auspiciously named Terenas Harbor was a new construction, but there was much that the tireless workers of the Scourge could create when uninterrupted for several weeks and months. Just a short jaunt north of Garren's Haunt, and further north still from Brill, and finally was Lordaeron City. But it was here, at these docks, that the Lich King had seen fit to deliver unto the most trusted servants of King Arthas a great and wondrous bounty.

The ships that pushed through the morning mists were deathly silent, as was only proper. Dozens of the transports came across the waves, their oars rising and falling in perfect unison, though some were propelled entirely by the magic powers of the Scourge itself. Upon his senses he could feel over half a dozen Liches upon the transports, former Kirin Tor sent away to Northrend almost immediately upon falling to the forces of Falric's lord. So many, gone, and only now returned. Marywn led them, and as ever the two most faithful Captains in the King's service were perfectly aware of one another due to their own granted blessings. The boats were of a savage design, to be sure, nothing at all like the proper décor of the Scourge, but they were new, and so would likely learn in time. Largest amongst the boats was one that actually appeared to have portions of stone upon it, and its great bulk actually crunched against the docks as it came to a stop.

Falric chose to ignore the damage, knowing that the mindless servitors of the docks would repair the damage posthaste. He instead chose to focus his attention, and that of his company, upon the great ramp which slid out and down onto the wood and bone docks themselves. First, of course, came Marywn and a smattering of his best soldiers, marching in formation until they joined with Falric's own forces. His friend in life and undeath nodded curtly.

"These are them?" Falric asked, only somewhat rhetorically.

"These are them."

A giant of blue flesh thumped onto the ramp, both two toed feed bare. Falric gazed unflinching at the muscular goliath, armed and armored in rune emblazoned armor that had been freshly made in the foundries of Icecrown itself.

"He was made one of our brothers?"

"We are all brothers in death. Still, the Lich King granted him such boons out of acknowledgement of his own position."

Falric tilted his head in thought.

"From the lowliest drudges to the highest of Kings, all serve the Scourge," Marywn murmured before calling out to the descending beast and its own equally huge guard. Taller and far more powerful looking than any Amani or Gurubashi, they snorted and grunted and gabbed to themselves, but silenced at a single slight movement from their leader. "Would you not agree, oh King of the Drakkari?"

Frost King Malakk had fought long, and hard, and ever more desperately as Zul'Drak was torn apart and desecrated around him in an effort eerily similar to that of Zul'Aman though the savage Drakkari had not known it at the time. In the end, he had fallen at the hands of another King who served the Scourge and its eternal master. In the end, the Drakkari could not as a tribe count themselves amongst the living save for a few aggrieved survivors who had fled deep into the central wastes. In the end…

"Aye. All serve da Scourge, even da Drakkari…"

"All serve da Scourge, even da Drakkari…" came the echoing calls as the whole of the tribe began to disembark from the great fleet that had ferried them from Northrend onto the shores of Lordaeron.

=====================================================
​

Abandoned Frostwolf Hold, Alterac Valley

​

Grand Marshal Garithos, in life, had been a very large man. His bulk was made almost entirely of muscle, from a harsh and unyielding exercise and training regime that had begun ever since he had failed paladin training for reasons he never did comprehend. Said reason was rather simple, given that Uther Lightbringer had found the younger man's unending spewing of vitriol against all non-human races including their own allies in the dwarves, gnomes, and elves, to be utterly droll and intolerable. Garithos was never told this, and so did not know anything more than his rejection from the Silver Hand. Regardless, he fought, he trained, and fought again.

When the Scourge overran his homeland, he managed to cobble together a smattering of resistance forces and had charged into the heart of the Scourge held lands in order to exact vengeance. A week's passing found him and a dozen other survivors from that ill-thought course of action fleeing into the Alterac Mountains. Undead pursuers forced them to take refuge in a surprisingly hidden valley, where a long-abandoned orcish hold provided valuable shelter. Even in this, he ensured he received twice as many rations as his other 'soldiers' as was befitting his station as a noble and as their commander.

As such, his meat was of reasonably high quality.

Zul'jin knew none of this, as all food tasted of nothing but ash these days regardless of its source. Still, he continued to chew on what had been the bicep of Grand Marshal Garithos, rolling the meat back and forth in his mouth as he stared into the low flames of his war camp. Life had gone all strange since Zul'Aman fell. Since over ninety percent of the Amani were dragged up to Silvermoon and then subsequently lost. Returning from a hunting trip only to find his beloved Zul'Aman in flames, the frantic search for and rallying of any survivors he could find…he still had nightmares about that day. Anything the High Elves could ever have done paled before that. They could never have taken his home from him, but the Scourge…

"Taka, you finish reading dem human reports?" he looked over at one of the nearby trolls who was propped up on an ancient log, putting aside the beefy arm. He couldn't bring himself to eat right now. "I wanna know everything dis guy knew about da Scourge."

The smaller Amani clicked her teeth as she gazed down at the scrawling words on the pages of the dead human commander's diary.

"It'd be easier if I had some better lighting, Warlord," she flipped another page and squinted at the words. "Also, dis Garithos can barely spare a minute ta talk about actual important things. Look at dis," she tapped one particularly long paragraph with one scarred finger, "the whole thing here is about how useless dwarves are for building proper stuff."

Zul'jin growled. The younger troll gulped and hastily got back to reading. All around them the warcamp bustled with dimmed activity, though it wasn't for the usual reasons. These days, only in battle against the Scourge could the Amani – what oh so very few remained – get their blood up. Food was ash, alcohol was worthless as drink, and the passion of their people had been sucked away from them. Some had gone mad entirely in the darkest days the Amani had ever lived under, more so especially once it was confirmed that the bastard abomination Arthas had managed to capture and drain the energies of the Loa from the great forest gods themselves. The Amani had lost their gods, now and forever, and the shame was overwhelming.

Tired eyes gazed out as the last Amani warlord took stock of his people. Zul'Aman was gone. The Loa…were gone. What weapons and armor they had was scavenged or just what they could carry as their home was taken from them and desecrated. The only thing the Amani had left at this point was hate. Hate had become their gods. Their sustenance. All the old troll could do now was go out fighting, go out bringing down as many of the Scourge as he could. They had nothing else. No allies. No…

Taka barely noticed when her warlord rose, absentmindedly bringing his arm of human with him.

There was little need for stealth at the moment, the valley was secure enough. As long as the Amani weren't discovered coming and going, they could remain there indefinitely. Zul'jin mused on that point as he wandered about the hold. And it was a Hold, of the distinct orcish style. During the Second War he had never fought alongside the Frostwolves, but he knew who they were. A group who had not agreed with the Horde's goals and had been banished because of it…or something like that. He'd always been more focused on attacking the High Elves than thinking about things like that.

"Da Horde, huh?" he mused as he ran his fingers over a banner which had fallen against the wall. The blue and white cloth was ragged, battered by the elements, but still remained.

As he padded through the hold he passed by his fellow trolls, all nearly as exhausted as he was. Some were currently treating wounds, others were sleeping, while some few almost wept as they beseeched spirits who were no longer there. Which was one of the saddest parts about it all, really. The Shadow Hunters and Witch Doctors were powerless, utterly so. Some had spoken of trying to connect to the Loa of the Drakkari, especially since they seemed to be slowly revitalizing the hold into a more permanent home for the Amani, but those calls had gone unanswered as well.

"Where did you go?" he asked the wind when he had reached the top of the hold and gazed down at the rest of the snow swept valley.

He'd heard of the 'new' Horde. Old Doomhammer had popped up out of nowhere and died almost as quickly, but not before passing on his mantle to some hot shot shaman who seemed to want nothing to do with the way of the 'Old Horde'. At least the Horde that Zul'jin had joined. So the warlord had turned his eyes away, and remained focused on purely Amani matters. Only now, after his civilization was less than charcoal, did he wonder how things could have gone if he had rejoined them. Would the Horde have taken the Amani across the sea, wherever it was they had gone, and thus preserved more of his people than he himself had been able to?

It was incredible what watching nine tenths of your entire people being killed and raised again as servants to be turned to ash could do to one's mentality. What seeing, hearing, and feeling down to one's core that the very gods themselves had been taken by the Scourge. Zul'jin gazed down from the lip of the hold's roof, and wondered if falling from that height would kill him. Without the Loa, the regeneration inherent to the troll race was failing the Amani. Wounds that should have healed in days remained even now. All the Amani had left was Shadra, and she wasn't keen on responding to their call, especially after what happened to the others.

He stood there feeling the bone chilling wind run into him again and again for hours, and only turned when he heard Taka scrambling up onto the top of the hold.

"Taka."

"Hey, warlord. So…looks like dis Garithos at least marked some targets towards the end here."

"….I be waitin'…"

"We got…" she flipped through the pages, "Some new docks they built, some kinda super school for dem necromancers n' lich tings in 'Scholomance', and a big bad base up in dat human city Stratholme. A coupla other human towns which got taken. Whatchu wanna do warlord?"

Zul'jin was silent.

"Warlord?"

"Here's what we gonna do Taka…"

=================================
​

Jaina stared at the mirror opposite her, and frowned at her appearance. Her body was…she was exhausted. The sheer act of using the Book as she had was…

"How did…hmm…" she said almost silently as she fingered the lock of hair with her hand.

She hadn't actually noticed anything was wrong until today, had no idea when it had changed. But changed it had. It couldn't have been that she was getting old, no, her face and body wasn't suddenly gaining wrinkles and sagging like the mysterious spell that had been unleashed upon the long lost Khadgar. Everyone knew what the mad Guardian had done to him before being slain, so for a heart stopping moment she had wondered if this was to be the toll that the Book would take on her. Hours of self-examination had proved that not to be the case. She had changed though. That was undeniable.

Staring back was the same Jaina as always…except for the multiple streaks of strange white-grey that had replaced her usual blonde. That and the almost undetectable glow from behind her eyes. Even so, she poked and prodded at herself, unwilling to simply let it go. A knock at the door would have made her jump if it were last year, but after fighting the Scourge and leading her people across the sea and deep into this land…well.

Perhaps some things about her had changed.

"Yes?" she called.

"My lady, you asked to be reminded of the time when-," her chamberlain began.

"When I was to once again meet with the Horde. Right. We're supposed to go looking for the Oracle today…" she said the last beneath her breath. "Thank you!"

"Of course, Lady Proudmoore."

The Archmage hummed as she gazed at her staff as it floated in the air. A week with the Book of Medivh had changed it tremendously from the rather humble staff of before. The green head crystal had been carved with new runes and both glowed with arcane light that could grow to blinding if she so wished it. All the way down the staff were improvements, a changed core, improved outer shell with additional magic that she hadn't even known existed before reading even a small fraction of the Book.

"If I'd had this in Lordaeron…" she choked slightly when she grasped it with both hands and felt the power thrum through it, nearly vibrating in her grip.

The moment passed, like it always did. Like the nightmares faded after being up for a few hours. She shook herself and set her shoulders. No weakness, only strength. If that was what she needed when dealing with the Horde, then that was what she would do. A few moments more saw the rest of her outfit put on, and her newly improved cloak with Book-derived enhancements sweeping across her shoulders. Her staff clicked slightly on the ground as she left the room and descended into the courtyard.

Jaina's Rest had started as a temporary military base, but over time had simply grown far beyond its initial scope. Secluded off from the beaten path, inside a small canyon area, with flowing water and good soil, it had only been logical for it to expand the longer they waited and stared at the Horde across the way. It had its own logging mill, a blacksmith, barracks, even a church for goodness sake. The walls and their cannons were the result of the dwarves who had travelled across the sea with her setting up a workshop alongside the few gnomes. Perhaps she was a bit biased, but the woman for whom the settlement had been named – even if she had greatly protested it at the time – considered Windshear Hold, apparently due to the name given unto it by Cairne who actually knew the local names for things to be a bit more chaotic and less defensible.

Then again, maybe that was just old prejudices running up again.

"Lady Proudmoore! Attention!" Duke Lionheart bellowed at the attending knights and footmen.

"At ease, Duke. No need for that. Are the soldiers prepared?"

The paladin saluted once again.

"Aye, milady. We are ready."

Jaina nodded before raising her staff in the air, summoning power forth. It was so much easier than it had been just a week ago…

Bright blue circles appeared from thin air and began to cycle, and from one blink of an eye to the next they were gone.

 

[torroar]

The Order of the Black Heart: Part Sixteen
Zealousness
A Warcraft III AU​

There were twenty of them. Some were still dressed in the dreaded black plate of their station, while others had changed to featureless grey steel. Some held in sheathes the terrible and monstrous runeblades of their kind – that which rent souls and hungered for blood – while others either had far more mundane equipment or no weapons at all. A disturbing blue light emanated from their eyes, a light that only Uther Lightbringer himself no longer possessed in exchange for a faint golden sheen.

"Koltira Deathweaver. Thassarian. Bloodrose Datura," Uther gestured towards the death knights in question as he walked through the small camp.

He was not alone, of course. The other two founding members of the Silver Hand walked behind him, as well as the Grand Magus of the Kirin Tor. High Priest Isilien had not been offered a place in the short excursion over worries that they might do something…aggresive. The young Brigitte Abbendis and her companion Taelan had come as well, seemingly always at the side of the Lightbringer even after his erstwhile imprisonment had been officially ended. Saidan would have grimaced if he had felt the inclination for it, as while the young woman seemed disturbingly reverent of Uther her father on the other hand seemed determined to stalk after him in constantly muted fury. No others had come either, as the location of such a camp of potentially devastating combatants so near to Hearthglen needed to be kept secret. As Uther had said before they had set off, there was no need to cause any undue panic.

"And…all of them, are like you?" Saidan mused as he looked at them all.

"No, few are capable of using the Light anymore, but they have mastered the unholy powers forced upon them with vigor," Uther shook his head. "They would never have been freed if Arthas hadn't decided to throw his greatest against Dalaran…and perhaps if he had not Dalaran would not have fallen."

"Antonidas knew what he was doing," Rhonin said quietly, his tone somber. "He made his choice to save as many of the Black Hearts from being trapped as they were over escaping."

"And we shall not let his sacrifice be in vain, Rhonin, this I swear," Uther bowed his head.

It was easy to see how Rhonin and the rest of the Kirin Tor grieved. Their city had been plundered, wiped clean of all life, and many of their greatest were dead or worse – risen again in undeath. Antonidas himself was gone, along with many of their greatest and most powerful. The entire balance of power and influence that had existed in the Alliance had been utterly torn asunder. Of all of their people, only a third had been able to escape at the sacrifice of Antonidas and many of the other Archmagi. Still, that was significantly more than was estimated would have survived otherwise.

"I have a question, if you would indulge me, Uther," Saidan ran a hand through his greying hair. At his old comrade's nod, he sighed and spoke in careful tones, "All of you are freed from the Scourge, yet…you do not call yourselves members of the Silver Hand any longer."

"Ah," Uther raised a hand to interrupt, "I was wondering when you would ask."

"It is a fair question, abomination," the elder Abbendis sneered, speaking up for the first time since they had arrived. "You claim freedom, but continue to truck with dark and unholy forces. We well know how many of the Alliance's citizenry turned out to be traitors, to be members of the Cult of the Damned. You-,"

"Abbendis!" Saidan cut off his zealous ally with a single raised hand, clad in plate and mail. Then he looked towards the man who had, in life, been one of his brothers. "Disregarding the last of what he said, it is a question that demands an answer, Uther."

The Lightbringer sighed, and looked off into the middle distance for a moment before shaking his head. Turning to his longtime friend and fellow founder of the Silver Hand, he offered up his hands as if in sacrifice.

"Look at us, Saidan," Uther implored as he flexed his hands. "The Light has not forsaken us, nor have we it…but the things that were done to our bodies and souls at the hand of Arthas shall be part of our beings until we die."

Rolling his shoulders, the massive man ran a hand through his hair.

"We cannot be part of the Silver Hand, not with the taint that we shall carry throughout our existence. What Arthas did to us…what we did for him…," Uther mumbled a faint prayer as he shuddered.

"What guarantee do we have then," Abbendis hissed, his tone acidic and his words poisonous, "That you will not turn back to him? You admit your taint!"

One of his hands had found its way to the blade at his side, and Saidan could only raise an eyebrow incredulously. Both Taelan and Brigitte stared at the almost frothing High General. His irises had narrowed to pinpricks, his chest heaved like a forges bellows. Uther, for his part, kept a schooled expression as he walked forward and placed a hand on one of the other death knight's shoulders who looked back and nodded.

"Faith, and the Light," Uther answered gravely.

Many of these death knights had not been, priests, though a few of the original Silver Hand had, but none could deny the bedrock deep faith in the Light that Uther and his comrades possessed. For the sake of all things good, they had manage to be dragged out of the filth that the Lich King's greatest servant had dredged them in. There was clear evidence that the Light was not lost to them, exemplified in the man who had become known as Lightbringer. Others amongst the freed were still capable of touching the Light, and even those that for some inexplicable reason were unable to do naught but use the powers grafted to them could feel it's comforting touch without pain.

"The Light girds us, as it always has, even for those who remain unable to use it as before," Uther pointed towards one of the more powerful among them, the High Elf Koltira. "Koltira was no paladin, but instead a member of the Farstriders. Yet now he stands free, with all of us."

"Not a paladin!? How – we – how many of your cursed number had no succor from the Light before their corruption!?" Abbendis practically screamed this, both hands at the blades he carried, his voice almost hysterical.

"Abbendis…" Saidan growled.

"No," the man spat at Saidan's feet, "I have heard enough! You – you know nothing! You weren't there as the Scourge ravaged our homeland, you didn't walk the roads as men, women, and children screamed and died all around you!"

Adrien Abbendis screeched as he practically leapt away from the reaching hand of the paladin.

"I – I saw it, we saw it all you bastard. We watched as Lordaeron died all around us, I was there I was there when Arthas slew the King!"

"Adrien, calm down!"

"Father, please," Brigitte called out, slowly approaching the elder Abbendis. "It is the glory of the Light that returns them to us and keeps them from the Scourge's control, do you not see?"

Privately, Rhonin found it a little disturbing that the same mania evident in Adrien Abbendis seemed to exist in just as great a quantity in his daughter only for it to be going in a different slant.

"No no no no," Adrien howled, "They. Are. Undead! How do none of you see it! They are murderers, they are the ones who destroyed our homeland, they are nothing more than butchers!"

"Abbendis," Uther frowned, "We brought you here on good faith, and to prove ourselves. We are not the Silver Hand, and though we may take the name of the Order of the Black Heart-,"

That was it, and a blade flashed out of its sheath as Adrien held it steadily in the direction of the Lightbringer.

"See, see! They take the name-,"

And the patience of the Lightbringer began to wear thin.

"- in order to redeem it," he interrupted, his voice booming. "Arthas twisted us into his own servants, but we are free of him. In return, we shall take the name of the Black Heart and forge it into a fellowship of the free!"

"There. Is. No. Such. Thing. As. Free. Undead!" Abbendis screamed, but instead charging he began to back away, the tip of his blades wavering between the various targets.

His own daughter, who looked existentially horrified at her father threatening the Lightbringer.

Taelan Fordring, confused and concerned as one of the remaining top military officials of Lordaeron screaming at them.

Grand Magus Rhonin, of the Kirin Tor, who had slowly begun collecting arcane power to himself should things truly become violent.

Saidan, one of the founders of the Silver Hand.

Last of all, Uther Lightbringer. Behind him stood the ranks of the apparently redeemed Black Hearts.

Adrien Abbendis sneered at all of them, even as he backed away further. Then, he raised one of his blades high towards the night sky.

"I knew it would come to this, I knew it, I knew it the moment that you all let this," he wriggled the other blade at Uther, "Abomination come into our camp!"

"Adrien what are you-," Saidan began to say.

"I don't know what you are," Abbendis howled over his former friend's words, "You tainted creatures, you twisted undead and your servants, but I will not let you succeed! Thank the Light," he said with relish, "That others have seen through your façade!"

On the final word, soldiers began to appear from the woods. Dressed in scarlet armors and tabards, all of them with that same look of hatred in their eyes, they came. Dozens of them crept forward out of the shadows and leading them all…

"Oh, Isillien," Saidan whispered, his voice heavy, "Not you too."

"Do not speak to me, traitor," the High Priest snarled.

"Traitor, traitor to what," Saidan shook his head at them, "What is wrong with you two?"

"What is wrong," Abbendis growled, "Is that you are all of you, traitors! Traitor to the cause! To the living! All of you, betraying the Light and Lordaeron for your secret Scourge masters!"

"What the hell are you talking about," Rhonin cried out, "None of us serve the Scourge!"

"LIES! The Cult of the Damned, they were everywhere, are everywhere," Isillien cried out, "You wizards as well! How can we trust you, when Kel'Thuzad was one of your number!"

"I don't know what you're-," Rhonin began before having to dodge a lash of searing Light.

"Oh, you thought I didn't know, but I do, I did! It only took a few hours to extract the knowledge from your pathetic kind," Isillien smiled toothily, "But I learned. Kel'Thuzad, one of the greatest necromancers of the Scourge, came from the Kirin Tor!"

"You are, all of you, garbage," Adrien yelled. "Tainted, traitors, abominations alike! Well we will stand for it no longer," he gave Saidan a look of pity and scorn as he continued to speak, "I had thought to invite you among us, Saidan, but I know now that you are too far gone, too lost to the shadow."

"We," Isillien called out, his arms raised high in exuberant rapturous prayer, "Are the Scarlet Crusade, and we will break the back of the Scourge and free our lands!"

"Starting," Abbendis glared at Uther, "With you."

"Father no!"

Brigitte gasped as she was slapped aside the moment she got close enough to her father, flung to the floor by his strength. With one hand she cupped her check and stared up at him, uncomprehending.

He did not even look at her.

"You are corrupted, and have spent far too long in this…false idol of yours," Adrien said with a calm he did not seem capable of possessing, "But do not worry, child. Isillien will save you."

"As for the rest of you…Scarlet Crusade, prove yourselves…your High General demands it!"

"FOR THE CRUSADE!"

Saidan reached out with one hand, and with a blast of holy Light scattered some of the frothing crusaders as the entire band of crimson clad zealots began to charge. Uther regretfully drew a blade of his own while the rest of the freed Black Hand began to unsheathe their own weapons. Those that had possessed none previously began to charge up unholy bolts of death, while Rhonin began casting his own spells. Brigitte screamed as the High Priest reached for her and she began to scramble away, drawing her own weapons in defiance. She spared only one glance of pure venom for her own father before she rushed for her allies.

"Damn you, Adrien!" Saidan cried out for his friend, whose hatred had finally overwhelmed what reason was left to him. "Don't do this!"

"Kill them all, my brothers and sisters, all of them," Abbendis called out, before he went forward himself as the first of the vanguard were brought down by a collection of some of the mightiest former servants the Scourge had ever possessed.

Above it all, the moon glowed faintly through the clouds.

 

[torroar]

The Order of the Black Heart: Part Seventeen
Recrimination And Regret
A Warcraft III AU​

​

Unnamed Forest Clearing, Western Plaguelands

Uther grunted as he dragged his hammer back from the corpse of another 'Scarlet Crusade' member with a loud sucking sound. The chest cavity had been essentially pulped in that last single swing, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was that Uther had offered surrender multiple times before finally concluding the matter, each time having been refused. It was a very disheartening state of affairs. In point of fact, none of the 'Scarlet Crusade' as they had been so named had surrendered. So convinced of their insane course that they had rather died than be spared. Despite the fact that success would mean that not only would the Black Hearts have been struck down but also some of the greatest living heroes remaining to Lordaeron.

"Father…," Brigitte Abbendis whispered in horror as she stood above her prone father, the blood of the man who had raised her dripping from her blades.

"Do not…," the former general hissed at her before hacking out a bloody cough, "Speak to me…you Scourge filth!"

"How could you do this…," she whispered again, gesturing with the blades she had plunged into his belly. "How could you do this…?"

Saidan approached her, then, and placed a hand on her shoulder which the young woman leaned into, tears beginning to drip down her face. It was a dark day, this, where they had to kill so many. Worse, that Brigitte had in fact been the one to clash with her own father. Given by the wounds, she had ensured his death if the man did not receive treatment. That, coupled with the rather obvious fact that he was insane, meant that he would more likely than not refuse any aid whatsoever from any of them. Blackheart or Silver Hand.

"I am sorry, child," the greying man murmured, but Brigitte shook her head slowly.

"They…you deny the Light," she said, looking down at the hate-filled gaze of her own father. "The greatest revelation that the Light has ever given us, and you…,"

Uther blinked as he looked at her, the tightening of her grip on her weapons, the horrified expression that was sliding into something else entirely.

"You would have…you…heretic! You fool!" Brigitte finally screamed, shocking some of those who had been finishing up across the clearing. It was hard to ignore, after all. "YOU WOULD HAVE-!"

"Brigitte," Saidan began to say, before the woman shrugged him off and dove forward, screaming all the while, her eyes wide and expression locked into a rictus.

"DIE!" the daughter screamed to her father, as she stabbed down again and again, sinking her blades through the body and into the soil beneath down to the hilt with insane fury.

The shock evident on the man's face disappeared soon after along with the rest of his head as Brigitte stabbed down again and again. Within seconds Saidan had grabbed her around the waist with a single thick arm and dragged her back, but the damage was done. Her father was left a bloody ruin, while the woman kicked and screamed at him all the while spitting curses and oaths. It was, Uther found, singularly disquieting to see what almost looked like the same madness that had possessed the Crusaders turned against them, but he was soon distracted by the approach of Rhonin.

"Isillien escaped," the Grand Magus grunted, running a hand through sweat-soaked hair. "A few of his followers got away."

All around them, whatever wildlife had remained in the trees had fled from the sound of violence. The explosions of Light and arcane magic hadn't helped matters either. Uther sighed, before lifting a hand and clenching it. Rhonin blinked and suddenly relaxed from wounds he had not yet fully begun to register, aches that were no longer present. The wizard gave him a nod and smile, before continuing on with his report, all the while the rest of the Black Hearts assembled once more.

"Do you think he'll head back to Hearthglen?"

"I doubt it," Rhonin shook his head, "According to my communications to the rest of the Kirin Tor, a full third of the camp picked up and left, and any attempts to question them were met…violently. They disappeared into the wilderness, though we have scouts and mages trying to track them now.

"So far they've seen nothing," Uther finished for him.

Both turned to look at the approaching Saidan, the younger and now sole Abbendis having fallen back on her behind, glaring still at the cooling corpse of the father she'd slain. At the least she did not seem inclined to attack the body again. Even so, the rest of the Blackhearts gave her a wide berth as they moved about the clearing, dragging most of the bodies into one pile for disposal of. None seemed willing yet to get close to the slain general's body.

"Uther, Rhonin," Saidan greeted, "I heard you say that Isillien escaped?"

"Aye, Saidan. And it gets worse."

Saidan very slowly raised his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Light preserve me," he muttered before lowering his hand, shaking his head slowly as he put his hands on his hips.

"I am sorry, old friend," Uther murmured, "I did not mean for any of this to happen."

"None of us did," his fellow paladin replied with another weary sigh, "Though I suppose Arthas is laughing his head off. Here we are, trying to simply survive, and then all of a sudden these…idiots decide now is the best time to try and slay you?"

"It wasn't the best timing, no," Rhonin supplied, before looking past them at the still sitting Brigitte. "Ah…before my bad news…Brigitte?"

"I'll talk to her. It is a dark day when a daughter must kill her father, but I can't say that she was wrong to put him down. I should have seen it sooner," Saidan half-turned to look at her, "I knew that he and Isillien had been…traumatized by their experiences during the fall of the Lordaeron City, but…this…"

"We cannot foresee where some men crack, and others stand," Uther said quietly. "You cannot punish yourself for the madness of others."

Saidan only shook his head again as he stared up at the night sky, and the stars twinkling above.

"Perhaps. Now then," the old paladin glanced at Rhonin, "You said you had bad news?"

=====================================
​

Hearthglen, Western Plaguelands

"Once," Tirion spoke, the normally quiet man finding his voice as he looked upon the ruins of his former ruling, "Hearthglen was a populous place. Strong. Hearty."

"It will be again," Uther promised, a hand clasping on Tirion's shoulder as they walked into the tent city which spilled out of the very bounds of Hearthglen itself. "It will again."

"Perhaps, but not under me," the once disgraced paladin muttered, before lifting his eyes to look at the back of his son who was even now speaking eagerly to Saidan who had led them back. "It will be Taelan, not me."

"He is your son," Uther murmured, "And you have proven many times over that despite our foolishness…the Light did not forsake you. Can you so forsake him?"

"I have my honor, Uther, and made my decision long ago. The more I show myself to him, the worse it will be for my family."

The Lightbringer chuckled, though it was tainted with a weary darkness.

"Perhaps that would be true in another time, old friend. But not now. There are no sneering courts of lords and ladies waiting throughout Tirisfal, in the capital, of your 'dishonor' in freeing the orc."

"Karandra…," the paladin's voice broke at the name of his wife, "Told me on the day of my exile that she would not be following me. That she refused to let me ruin their lives like I had ruined my own."

"I…," Uther found his voice failing him, "I did not know that."

"She was right, though," Tirion said, tears drawn unbidden to his eyes but refusing to drop at the mention of that day, keeping his gaze resolutely forward. "She was right to say it."

"I think," Uther finally said, "That maybe she was right, or maybe she was wrong, but in the end…it doesn't matter anymore. Every paladin is needed, Tirion, you cannot simply disappear into the wilderness for the past's punishment."

"Watch me," Tirion grunted.

"You haven't left yet," Uther reminded him, but the conversation was by then most certainly over.

Uther would have said more, but he had much more to do before the day was out. Behind him, the rest of the freed Black Hearts walked, their stances and gazes cautious and guarded in a mirror match to many of those who stopped to pause at those who were returning. The news of Uther Lightbringer's return to the side of the living had been shared by now, his displays of the holy Light convincing many of his sincerity and the truth of his status. The testimony of Saidan had done more. But it was one thing to accept him…and entirely another to accept some of the more…darkened death knights. Their black and spiked armors, the eldritch runes upon their weaponry as well, and the distinct different aura shown between them and some of those who could still call upon the Light did not inure them very well.

Yet the most important part was that they were not being attacked. It seemed that the most of the zealous populace that had taken up residence in Hearthglen had left with the rest of the Scarlet Crusade. It was just unfortunate that some of those were of the Kirin Tor and clergy, and had proved adept enough as they moved east to lose those who had been trying to track them. Even so. He would take glares and muttering over dozens of dead men and women driven to violent madness any day.

"Hearthglen will take much expansion," Uther heard Taelan saying to Saidan up ahead, "If it is to accommodate all of these people in the longer term. We'll have to carve into the mountains themselves to grow the area as well."

"Not all can stay here regardless, young Fordring, many more will have to head east, perhaps towards Tyr's Hand. I hear that they are still holding strong, thus far. Not to mention what refugees we locate over time across the Plaguelands…if there are any left."

=========================================
​

Eastern Ashenvale Forest

"METALFIIIIIIIIIIIIIIST!!!"

"Kill him, kill him!"

Two orcs bellowed at the top of their lungs as they charged at one another over the leaf covered ground. High above, the twilight of the night sky twinkled through the lush canopy of the forest, but all hints of the previous tranquility that had been present had disappeared entirely with the violence unleashed in but a moment. The band of orcish raiders had whirled at the arrival of their pursuers, and upon seeing that it was in fact but two, had elected to use quantity over quality. At the least, their leader the warlock Klass Metalfist had ordered them to. Even as he summed fel flame to his side, the raiders charged forward in a single mighty mass of demon-fueled might.

That was their mistake.

As Grom sprinted forward, Gorehowl whistling through the air, Rexxar churned the dirt beneath his boots into mud along his flank. While Metalfist met the former leader of the Warsong in single combat, the only Mok'Nathal on Azeroth reaped a bloody toll amongst the Burning Blade and Shadow Council-aligned orcs who had fled the camps of the New Horde. Rexxar growled at the misfortune of the wolves who had been set against him, but he remained merciless throughout, using his own innate strength and brutal strikes to decapitate and rend with his axes.

"By fang and claw!" Rexxar heard himself call, but the roar was deafened beneath the wave of howling wolves and their riders.

"Traitors!" Grom growled as he cut down the orc facing him, uncaring of the wounds that had been cut into his flesh. "DEMON-LOVERS!"

"Just like you, Hellscream," Klass called out, before lobbing a sphere of roiling energies which exploded where it landed, melting two of the orcish raiders who had accompanied him while both Grom and Rexxar had leapt clear. "JUST! LIKE! YOU!"

Another three Burning Blade orcs died, not so much from being struck by any particular weapon, but instead from being so bodily thrown aside in a bone-shattering charge as Grom pushed through all sent to oppose him as he continued forward towards Klass whose snarling expression grew more and more into focus by the second. The warlock was not without his defenses, however, and within an instant and a curling of his fingers let loose a series of curses which would have brought low any number of foes. The blood began to boil beneath the flesh, the soul itself began to shriek as it was assaulted, yet throughout it all Grom continued forward at the same time as Rexxar killed more and more of the Burning Blade. For every blow the duo took, they lashed out with three more upon their foes.

Grom took the next ball of green flames directly to his chest and did not slow even for an instant as the flesh around his chest was scorched black. Klass Metalfist, in turn, one of the few remaining warlocks to the Burning Blade left on Draenor, had just enough time to roar in impotent fury one last time before Gorehowl sang its way through his guys. As it did so the choking dark magic which had been unleashed up until that point flickered out of existence while Metalfist's concentration was abruptly more focused on trying to pick up his spilled innards which slid steaming out onto the ground of the forest he had fled to. As his killer stood above him with blackened chest heaving Klass could see in the background the rest of his acolytes and servants being overwhelmed by the sheer violence that the fur-wearing stranger unleashed upon them.

"Damn you Hellscream, you could have…," Klass gurgled before Grom's boot planted itself into his throat and drove the dying warlock further into the dirt.

"I know what I could have done. I know what I am," Grom growled down at the orc beneath him, and twisted his boot from side to side. "I will never be clean of that. But killing the rest of your kind? That is something I can actually find honor in."

Klass struggled to speak further, but between the wound to his stomach and Grom's boot, the warlock could manage nothing.

"Grommash," Rexxar growled as he approached, "We are being watched again."

The eyes of the forest were upon them once again, and while Grom acknowledged his words with a slight nod, he remained focused upon the creature before him. For Klass Metalfist truly was a creature, a despicable thing.

"Thrall…freed us, you wretch. I know what I am responsible for, but for the first time in a long time…I can see the truth of myself. And if you think for an instant," he spat at Klass's rapidly changing coloration, "That I would join you? Just…throw myself under the whip of the demons again?! NEVER!"

With that, he increased the force behind his foot and crushed the bones of Klass's neck to powder. The warlock released once more wheeze before expiring totally but by then Grom had already turned away, not even then feeling his wounds much at all. Instead he stared at the piles of dead orcs and wolves which even now bled out their corrupted blood into the ground around them.

"Are you all right?" the beastmaster rumbled from next to him, even as his animal companions began to creep out from the foliage where they had been left.

Grom did not answer at first but by the time Misha the bear had made it over to them to nuzzle at Rexxar's outstretched hand air found its way into his lungs once more.

"I look at these fools, so eager to suckle at the teat of demons once more, and I am…ashamed, once more. My very existence is a stain on the honor of the Horde, of my people, but these," he waved his arm at the entire group, "These orcs would have us be slaves again. And if it were not for…something that I do not even know the source of," Grom slowly spun in a circle, eyes glaring out at the world itself as he did so, "I might have joined them once again. Doomed our people…again."

"Something?"

Around them, the natural sounds of the forest were slowly returning, and it was in that rush of uncorrupted life slowly reasserting itself that Grom found the strength to continue once more.

"I felt the fire in me, so long burning with the rage of the Legion…go out. Has that ever happened to you, Rexxar? That something you had thought to be just a part of you for so long you had stopped thinking about it…disappear?"

Rexxar stared at Grom for a painfully long moment before finally looking away.

"Perhaps. But we should leave. Our task here is done, Metalfist is done. There yet remain more traitors, I thought I heard you say?"

The only living orc in Ashenvale sighed before calming himself.

"Yes. To the south, now, we go. Klass was closer, and had the raider compliment of those they could have gotten farther. But by now…the trail will have gone cold by now. Even for you, Rexxar."

The beastmaster grunted, perhaps affronted, but did not respond to it. In point of fact, he turned away, facing the forest. The sudden wariness in his stance was enough to draw Grom from his own introspection and raise Gorehowl once more.

"What is it?"

"He's coming."

"Who?"

And then in answer the forest itself parted before them, revealing a group of what had to be the night elves that Rexxar had spoken of before accompanied by strange centaur-like women who bore sharp spears in their hands. But it was the one leading them which dwarfed them all. The forever-lingering demonic taint in Grom's blood recoiled at the very presence of the thing, but even as it did he saw Rexxar bow deeply to the massive being, falling to one knee.

"I am Cenarius and Lord of the Forest, Grommash Hellscream. And I would speak with the two of you upon those you hunt."

Grom stared up the demi-god, and slowly lowered Gorehowl.

"I'm listening."